The Memory Thief
by JustLike2Write
Summary: John and Sam must work together to find Dean and help him get his memories back. (This is a what if it had been John asking Sam for help at Stanford?)
1. Chapter 1

The Memory Thief

Spoilers: not really – more of a stand-alone, what-if story

Timeline: Season one – redo of episode one

Warnings: language, bits of angst, hurt comfort, and cognitive dissonance for all Winchesters

Summary: John and Sam must work together to find Dean and help him get his memories back. (This is a what if it had been John asking Sam for help at Stanford?)

I like the character of John Winchester – but I didn't feel like the character had much development, or his scenes ended up on the cutting room floor – so I thought I'd write something to flush him out a bit more. This is story is heavy with dialogue, because I wanted to explore Sam and John's relationship, and learn about Dean from an outside perspective. Hopefully I pulled something together worth reading. Again, this has not been beta'ed, all typos are a part of the creative process. Characters aren't mine, no money being made… yada, yada, yada…

Prelude

Mary Winchester stood near the oak kitchen table, long blonde hair cascading past her shoulders. She wore one of John's blue flannel shirts and a white t-shirt. Her belly was swollen, and she rubbed her hand along her right side. She tilted he head back and laughed. John was there, sitting at the head of the table pressing his hands to her belly as the baby kicked. He laughed. It was deep, joyful, and robust. They looked happy.

Content.

Worry free.

It was the last memory Dean had of his parents together, before Sammy was born, before the fire, before John's drive for revenge consumed him. Tears slipped from the corners of Dean's eyes. His eyelashes clung together, nostrils flared, and his chin quivered as he gasped for breath. He lay on the cement floor, beaten, bloodied, and exhausted. He met the spirit's darkness: dark eyes, hollow cheeks, hair entailed with the nature that bore her. She morphed suddenly, taking on the shape of Dean's memories: Sammy, his dad... his mother. The spirit touched his temple, and Dean screamed for the last time before everything went black.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 1

John Winchester sat in his truck and looked toward the houses on Greek row. It was dark, and the streetlights reflected off the surface of the pavement. The cars and homes amplified the culture of college life: Duct tape held a bumper and side mirror together, another had been covered in post-it notes, a new convertible was parked in the driveway across the street. Toilet paper hung from the tree in the neighbor's yard, beer bottles littered the steps and deck, an American flag hung in place of a curtain in the picture window next to the front door, and a sock hung from the door knob.

Across the street, the lights were on in the house, and popular music blared from an overused sound system. The silhouettes of students moving from room to room could be seen from the road. John sighed. While he thought about Sam and his need for a life outside of hunting, John never expected a life filled with parties, booze, girls, and drugs. It was college. John understood that. He understood that this is where students discovered who they were, what they wanted to be, and how to be it. They learned how to think critically, and how to be active members of society. John sighed, ran his hand over his face, and scratched at the stubble on his chin. College — in his mind — was where kids remained kids until the money ran out.

Real life didn't start until debt, work, family, and obligations became the primary source of motivation. John looked toward the house he was parked in front of and thought about his next move. He took a pull from the beer he had kept tucked between his thighs and sighed.

He hadn't spoken to Sam in over three years – not that he hadn't wanted to, but their relationship had changed, and not for the better. Sam had been offered a full ride scholarship to one of the best colleges in the nation and he decided to take the opportunity versus stay with his family. Sam had chosen his future over his family. The last words they spoke to each other were said in haste, anger, frustration, and betrayal. The words had been harsh and had left them both defeated, confused, and angry.

John scratched the back of his neck, swallowed, and thought about his failures as a father. Mary's death had changed him. He became hard, isolated, aggressive, and at times neglectful. His sons had suffered the consequences. He took a deep breath and gathered his courage and put aside his pride and placed his beer on the seat beside him as he opened the door to his truck. He knew what had to be done. He stepped out, shut the door and walked toward the house. He watched an upstairs light flicker on and he thought about the things he needed to say, the things he should say, and the things Sam needed to hear. John cleared his throat and took the short walk to the door and knocked. He shoved his hands into his pockets, jacket skirts tucked behind his wrists. He clenched his jaw when he heard movement behind the door.

The lock slid open.

John inhaled and watched the door open. "Sam," he said, and clenched his jaw.

"Dad?" Sam sighed, and then grabbed the door at shoulder level and shifted into a defensive position. "Why're you here?"

"Dean's missing." John clenched his jaw and tightened his fists in his pockets.

Sam shifted, and frowned. He ran his hand over his face and turned to look up the stairs before turning back to his father. "Are you sure?" he said, and then glanced toward the truck. "How do you know he's not on a hunt — maybe he's out of cell phone range?"

John cleared his throat. "He ah," he winced and looked away. "Dean left a few months after you." He watched Sam's shoulders relax. "We... we stayed in touch by phone, just quick check in's, but we lost touch a few weeks ago—"

"And you're just now looking for him?" Sam turned and flipped on a light to the living room. "What happened? Dean wouldn't have just left — something happened?"

John followed Sam and stopped next to the staircase banister. "He went up north to investigate some unusual activities in an abandoned hospital."

"No, I mean what happened between you two?" Sam rubbed the back of his neck and then looked toward his father. "He's been gone for almost three years and you haven't bothered to call, to tell me what's happening — Hell, Dean..." He sighed and took a deep breath. "Dean wouldn't just leave — he wouldn't — unless he was pushed."

John took a deep breath, licked his lips, and shrugged. "We saw things differently –- he wanted to do something different –-"

Sam shook his head and frowned. "Did you tell him never to come back?"

John exhaled, clenched his jaw, and met Sam's eyes. "It was a difficult time."

"It's always a difficult time, dad, that's never changed." Sam placed his hands on his hips and looked toward the staircase. "I can't believe you sent him off alone—"

"I didn't send him anywhere," John said. He scratched his jaw, shifted his feet, and squared his shoulders. He looked around the room and observed the stark difference between the hotels Sam had lived in growing up and the house he had made into a home. The living room was clean, text books, a computer, and printer rested on the dining room table. A framed photograph of Dean and Sam, taken a few months before Sam's departure, rested framed on an end table next to a lamp. Coasters were placed on the coffee table. "Nice place."

Sam looked up and toward his father. "It's home."

John swallowed. "Dean's an adult — and a better hunter than I ever was." He sighed and looked down. "I need your help finding your brother, Sam."

Sam scratched his scalp behind his ear and nodded. He met his father's eyes. "Let me grab a bag." He walked toward the staircase. "I need to let Jess know I'll be gone."

"Girlfriend?"

"Yeah," Sam said, and took the steps two at a time.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2

Hank O'Rourke flipped on the open sign and listened to it hum as the light was slow to ignite. He scratched his bald head and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his crooked nose. His auto shop had one car on the rack and three more parked in the driveway, and two others parked along the road. He shoved a wooden doorstop beneath the door that separated the garage from the office and then hit the up button for the garage doors. They jolted, squeaked, and finally started the slow process upward. A cool breeze entered the garage and Hank took a deep breath and watched a school bus go by. He paused a moment and listened to the subtle hum of an engine. He stepped outside and looked toward the old Cadillac that had been parked beside the garage for 18 months. He scratched his neck and walked toward the car. He paused a moment when he spotted a young man asleep across the front seat. A black and white shepherd slept curled on the floor on the passenger side.

Hank knocked on the door and jumped when the young man sat up. "Hey," he said. "You can't be in there."

The stranger nodded and disconnected the wires from beneath the dashboard. He opened the door and stepped out, and then looked blankly at Hank. The man paused and waited for the dog to jump out before closing the door. His clothes were a mess, covered in dirt, and his shirt and jacket was ripped from the cuff to the elbow of his right arm. Blood had dried along the frayed edges, and around his wrists. Both eyes were black, the right slightly swollen, and his left cheek was covered in bruises. He stood still, not unlike a kid about to get scolded.

"You ah," Hank said, "look like someone took a piece outta you."

The man clenched his jaw, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then looked toward the road.

"You got a name?"

When no answer was forthcoming, Hank nodded. "You can hear me though, right?" He sighed when the stranger nodded.

"But you can't talk?" Hank frowned, and then motioned for him to follow. He turned when he noticed he wasn't being followed. "Come on," he called, "I ain't gonna hurt ya."

Hank reentered his shop and stepped into his office. He opened the antique refrigerator behind his desk and grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of orange juice. He turned and handed both items to his guest who had entered the room and stood quietly against the wall. "You look like you could eat somethin'." Hank motioned toward the chair next to the front door, covered in a blanket dedicated to a college football team. The black and white shepherd sat next to the young man, ears forward, tail wagging and waited for a morsel. Hank watched the stranger pull the sandwich in half and shared it with the dog.

"I'm gonna make a phone call," Hank said. "I'll be right back." He sighed and watched the young man took a bite of the sandwich and followed it down with a long pull from the juice. Hank ran his hand over his head and stepped back into the garage and called the sheriff's department. "Bill," he said, "we've got another one."

Sheriff Bill Taylor shifted the Bronco into park and looked toward the garage. He took a deep breath, opened the door and walked toward the office. He was tall, thin, with graying blonde hair. He wore a tan cowboy hat with sweat stains around the rim, the front dip was discolored after years of running his finger and thumb over the felt. Bright blue eyes peeked beneath the hat as he looked forward. "Hank," he said, and entered the office. Dressed in blue jeans, brown leather cowboy boots, and a tan long sleeve shirt with a badge pinned above his left chest. His weapon was clipped to his belt to the right of his hip, and holstered cuffs above his rump.

Hank nodded, seated behind the counter, he motioned toward the young man who had fallen asleep in the chair. "Found him in Mr. Hendrick's old Cadillac—"

"Can't believe you still have that piece of shit," Bill said, and squatted in front of the stranger.

"Yeah, well, whoever that kid is, he knows a thing or two about auto mechanics — had the damn thing runnin'."

Bill turned and looked at him with a frown. "There're more reliable cars to steal."

"Found him sleep in the front seat — think he got it runnin' to stay warm."

Bill nodded. "Any idea of who he is?" He stood, winced when his knees cracked, and walked toward the counter and leaned against it as he looked at Hank.

"Not a clue," Hank took a pull from his warm coffee. "Kid don't talk," he shrugged, "didn't seem to know his name when I asked 'im. Called you as soon as I could." He grabbed a fresh cup from the cabinet behind him and poured Bill a cup of coffee. "Think he'll end up like the others?"

Bill took a deep breath and sighed. "Hope not." He took a pull from the coffee and choked it down. "Damn worst cup of coffee, Hank."

"It's missin' the mold you're so fond of," Hank said and raised his cup in toast.

Bill shook his head. "I'll call Julie, see if she can come check him out — maybe patch up some of those cuts." He pushed himself away from the desk and looked out the window toward Mrs. Hailey's Ford Escape. "You said he was good with cars?" He looked back toward Hank.

Hank shrugged. "He got that caddy runnin'."

"Can you put him to work? Put him up in your trailer out back 'till I can check out the missing persons reports?" Bill took another sip of coffee. "Keep an eye on him." He placed his cup on the counter and looked toward the dog that looked up at him. "I'll be right back," he said, and walked back to his truck.

Hank took a deep breath and looked out the window as Bill used his radio to make the call. The young man stirred and inhaled sharply as he sat up and met Hank's eyes. Hank smiled and raised his eyebrows. "Sheriff Taylor is going to see if he can find out who you are."

The young man nodded and ran a hand over his face. He looked around the room and paused at the unorganized bulletin board filled with business cards, phone numbers, car keys, and yellow post it notes. The counter was clean with samples of brake fluid, transmission fluid, oil, and starter fluid organized at the far left. An out of date calendar was hooked on the wall next to the door with an image of a busty brunette who framed her cleavage with her arms and pursed her lips.

"Once we figure out who you are, I'm sure Bill 'ill get in contact with your family," Hank said, and then moved from behind the desk to the front of the counter. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched Bill walk back toward the office.

Bill flipped the calendar to the current month. "Always a day late and a dollar short." He leaned to his right, rested his right arm on the counter and looked toward Hank's guest.

"Anything?" Hank asked and sighed with a shake of his head. "Son, this is Sheriff Bill Taylor – he's gonna get you on the right track."

The stranger stood and reached with his right hand toward Bill who shook it with a firm grip. The young man swallowed and gently touched the tender cut above his left eye. He shifted nervously and finally settled when he shoved his hands into his pockets. Out of place, insecure, and lost in his own mind, he stood near the wall and glanced from left to right as he sought something familiar.

"You remember what happened?" Bill asked and looked past their guest toward the yellow dry land fire truck that pulled up behind the Bronco.

The stranger shook his head.

"You got any ID on you?" Bill asked and pushed the brim of his hat up with his finger.

The stranger frowned and clenched his jaw.

Bill shifted and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. "ID," he said, opened the wallet and showed him.

The stranger patted his back pocket and then the pockets of his jacket and pulled a wallet and set of keys from the inside jacket pocket. He ran his thumb over the leather and handed it to Bill, and then clenched the keys into his fist.

"Ian Anderson?" Bill looked up and met Nick's eyes. "Marty Balin, Eric Bloom?" He took a deep breath and chuckled. "I take it you're a fan of classic rock—"

"Hell," Hank said, "he's got good taste — better than the shit they're coming out with nowadays." He raised his eyebrows in jest.

Bill nodded but kept digging through the wallet. He pulled an old photograph of a blonde woman holding a child, a picture of two young men sitting on the hood of a black car. Finally, he pulled out an old card with the name, Dean Winchester, written in cursive across the center. It was a coupon for an ice cream cone, redeemable by request. The card was old, the letters smeared and barely visible, but "mom" was written in the bottom left corner. "Dean?"

Dean looked up but didn't act like he recognized the name.

Bill put the IDs back into the wallet and handed it back. "We'll call you Dean." He looked toward him and nodded.

"Hey boys," Julie said and entered the office with a medical bag hanging over her right shoulder. Her blonde hair was pulled into a tight ponytail. A tattoo peaked beneath the left cuff of her uniform. Rings adorned both hands. She dropped her bag to the floor. "Take a seat," she said, and squatted to unzip the medical bag.

Hank nodded. "It's alright, Dean. She's all business 'til you get to know her and learn that her parents still live in town and are happy to share every piece of dirt." He smiled. "Matter of fact, this one got her ass handed to her by Sheriff Morrison," he looked toward Bill, "back before your time. But she got caught smokin' dope in the girl's locker room when she was in junior high." He smiled and watched Dean take a seat.

"Still an asshole, Hank," Julie said, and still squatted she turned on the balls of her feet and looked at him, before turning back around toward Dean. She grabbed Dean's arm and suddenly let go when the shepherd jumped to her feet with a growl. "Who's your friend?"

Dean swallowed and glanced from the dog to Hank who was quick to grab a back of jerky he kept hidden in his desk. He tossed one toward the shepherd who jumped into action for the treat.

"Keep her occupied." Julie raised her eyebrows and sighed. "Hey," she said, and caught Dean's attention. "I need to take a look at those injuries — that cut looks like it might need stitches."

When Dean nodded she reached forward and gently pushed the sleeve of his jacket and shirt up past his elbow to expose the long gash that ran from his wrist to mid forearm. "Looks like this happened a few days ago." She pulled some antiseptic from her bag and cleaned the wound then carefully wrapped it with gauze and tape. "You told me to come out and take a look at this kid, Bill, you want to elaborate on why he looks like shit?" She pulled Dean's sleeve down and then gently touched his chin and took a look at the cut on his forehead.

"Just patch him up, Julie."

She sighed and rolled her eyes. She held up her hand and rubbed her thumb against the ring adorning her finger and then gently cleaned the injuries on Dean's face. She applied butterfly bandages to the cut above his eye and said, "You need me to look at anything else?" She made a motion to touch his ribs, but he moved quickly out of her reach and pushed her hands away.

"Okay," she said, hands raised, and stood. "Superficial mostly — at least what I can see." She grabbed her bag and shifted it over her shoulder and took another look at her ring. "You're not going to say anything?"

"About what?" Hank asked.

"You're both blind assholes," she said. "Future daughter-in-law, Bill, future daughter-in-law." She raised her eyebrows and chuckled as she walked passed him and headed back to the truck.

"Samuel finally popped the question?" Hank asked with a grin.

Bill sighed and scratched his chin and chose to ignore the comment. He pushed himself from the desk and slapped Hank's shoulder. "I'll let you know what I find out."

"You can crash here," Hank said, opening the trailer door. The 19-foot, tandem trailer had been Hank's hide out while his wife had gone through menopause. It was clean, well kept, and ready for his next big fishing trip. A trip he prepared for but never scheduled. Blankets were folded on the bed, dishes were stacked neatly in the cupboard above the sink, the refrigerator was empty but in working order. Hank stepped aside as Dean entered and looked around. "My wife Louis will bring by some groceries, figure I can get that old Cadillac on the market and get it sold thanks to you — gettin' you some food is the least I can do."

Hank stepped back outside and took a deep breath. "I've got three cars in need of servicin', one needs a brake job, and I've got one scheduled to be delivered tomorrow in need of a new transmission. Since you could fix that old caddy I'll get you goin' on some oil changes."

Dean nodded and pointed toward the cars in the parking lot. Uncertain of where he was, why he was there, where he had come from, he followed Hank like the shepherd did him, and tried to piece together what he knew. He clenched his fists, cracked his knuckles, and pressed his nails into the palms of his hands.

"Yep, those are them — I'll show you where the tools are. You're gonna need some clothes — I'm sure we can find you some at the second-hand store in town." Hank walked toward the shop.

Dean followed and looked around the property. Old cars were parked next to each other along the back fence. A pinto with a dented hood and smashed grill, a 240Z with missing wheels and passenger side door, a station wagon on cinder blocks, and a 1950 Ford pickup truck that was covered in rust and missing a windshield.

"Since you don't talk none, you'll have to write things down — you can write, can't you?" He scratched his scalp as he walked and drug the torn hems of his pants in the dirt.

Dean nodded but kept looking at the old truck.

Hank chuckled. "Tell you what — you get that piece of shit goin' I'll give it to you."

Dean forced a smile and followed Hank to the shop, without being asked, he stepped beneath the lift and glanced upward. He removed his jacket and tossed it over the air compressor, grabbed a couple of tools from the tool stand and started the oil change.

Hank was about to say something but stopped himself. The kid had a talent for cars and understood the inner workings of an engine. He looked comfortable in the shop, and focused his energy on the oil change versus thinking about the things he was missing. Hank sighed, ran his hand over his face and sighed. He turned, left Dean alone and stepped back into his office to pay his quarterly taxes.

When Louis stepped through the front door, Hank looked up and smiled. She had brought him lunch. She was petite with gray hair trimmed short for easy care. Her face was round, and her large brown eyes were framed with ornate glasses. She wore a red cardigan, tan slacks, and a heavy brown bag hung from her left forearm. She placed the canvas bag filled with groceries on the counter and handed the lunch bag to Hank and kissed his cheek.

"That him?" she said and peeked toward the garage. She turned and looked toward Hank who nodded. "He's a lot younger than the others." She glanced back at Dean before turning and taking a seat next to the desk. "Bill said he doesn't talk?"

Hank shook his head and leaned back in his swivel chair. It squeaked beneath his weight. "Not a word." He ran his hand over his face, tilted his head to the left and sighed. "Knows his engines, he reads, writes... I've had to show him a few things, but the basics are there – it's just," he flipped his wrist, "everything else is... gone." He took a deep breath and glanced passed Louis as Dean shifted the oil bucket beneath his third oil change for the day.

Louis nodded and adjusted her handbag. "Bill is making his rounds in case someone comes to town looking for him." She shifted and cleared her throat. "Do you think he was up at the old hospital?"

Hank shrugged. "Could be." He leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. "If he and the others were, there's got to be somethin' up there that's causin' this –- maybe a chemical or somethin'." He scratched his brow and then reached for Louis' hand. "This ain't for you to worry about."

"There's somethin' up there, Hank, I know it –- and folks around here don't' want to talk about it."

Hank looked up when Dean stepped into the room wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He nodded toward Louis who returned his smile. Dean pulled a folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Hank. Dean stepped back, shoved his hands into his back pockets and looked again at the calendar, the garage, and the out the windows toward the town he wasn't familiar with. He swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbed, and he looked back at Louis who sat watching him, a slight smile curling her lips.

"You can find it in the bottom drawer of the red tool trunk."

Dean clenched his jaw and nodded, eyes flashed from Hank to Louis before leaving the office.

Louis watched him. She turned toward her husband sighed. "That young man is broken." She clutched her bag and stood. She watched Hank shake his head. "Don't," she warned, "I've seen it before, Hank."

"He's doin' pretty good for someone who lost his memory -– hell, look at him, he's workin' on the cars –- keepin' himself busy."

Louis sighed. "To keep his mind busy," she said, "he's lost, Hank. Lost in a world he doesn't know, understand, or know how to reason with." She glanced toward the garage. "The cars are his only connection to what he's lost."

"Louis," Hank said.

"Don't Louis me." She hooked her bag over her forearm and adjusted her glasses. "For whatever reason... he likes you." She smiled when she looked at him and leaned to kiss his cheek. "You're a big bear, ol' man."

"I'm not the one with gray hair." Hank smiled.

"You're bald." She raised her eyebrows. She turned and walked toward the door. "See you for dinner."

Hank nodded, leaned forward, grabbed his pencil, and he continued his taxes.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3

John drove, right hand at the bottom of the wheel, left elbow rested on the well of the window. There was a coffee tucked between his thighs, and a bag of pork rinds at his right hip. The engine roared as he pressed the gas to pass a mini-van with kids in the back seat watching videos on the displays behind the head rests of the driver and passenger seats.

Sam sighed and shrugged when he recognized _Harry Potter._ The driver of the van glanced their way and slowed when a toy was tossed to the front seat. Sam shifted and made himself comfortable against the fabric seat and clenched his jaw as he thought about his brother. He and Dean had always been close, most of the time they'd only had each other when things got bad. Through it all, Dean never left. He always stood by, even when their father made bad choices, drank too much, or disappeared for days at a time while hunting. On many occasions it had been Dean who made sure Sam was dressed and ready for school, he made sure snacks were tucked away in his book bag, and he always reminded Sam of where he would be to pick him up after school. There were many times that Dean had been more of a father to Sam than John had been –- Sam's heart ached because of it.

They had been on the road for ten hours and had said less than ten words to each other. Sam took a deep breath and ran his hand over his face as they continued their journey north. The landscape had changed from flat desert, rolling hills to high peeked mountains. They had passed farming communities, snowcapped mountains, and desert byways.

"Why'd you and Dean quit hunting together?" Sam asked, clenched his jaw in anticipation of the casual answer.

John swallowed, took a pull from his coffee and sighed with a shrug. "Your brother wanted to see things on his own for a while," he said, and kept his eyes on the road.

Sam rolled his eyes and looked toward the lights in the distance of another small town. He and his father had never seen eye to eye. They had argued about music, food, hotels, hunts, and even what kind of socks to wear. They were just too different. Sam loved technology, he loved school and learning, and he loved being involved. Hunting was an isolated and independent life. His father just wanted to hunt, and his obsession with finding the one who killed his mother was his sole focus. Sam resented him for it. He resented the moves from school to school, the lack of a home, being dropped off with random people, and meals purchased from vending machines. Sam scratched his jaw and looked out the window. He picked at a torn cuticle on his left thumb. He had spent his adolescence trying to understand his father, trying to relate to him – but what he felt was frustration. Why was hunting for his mother's killer more important than raising his kids?

Sam had tried arguing with Dean about it. Tried to point out the failures of their father, but Dean got defensive, told him to man-up and deal with the situation. Then, when pushed too far, Dean shut down, stopped talking about it, and turned to his outlets: working on his car, playing his music too loud for conversation, or he hid in the arms of a woman willing to compromise her virtue, or by finding a bar where he could hide amongst the chaos –- sometimes becoming the chaos.

Sam finally relented and bit on the end of the cuticle and pulled the skin from his thumb. He rolled down the window, spit, and rolled it back up. His father never turned from his position. "Did you ever want kids?"

John sighed, rolled his eyes, and looked toward Sam. "What the fuck?"

Sam raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "It's a simple question."

John took a deep breath, frowned, and squeezed the steering wheel before shifting uncomfortably. "Yeah," he sighed, "your mother an' I always wanted kids." He paused a moment, and a slight smile curved the right side of his mouth. "She wanted a girl." He glanced toward Sam but kept his eyes on the road.

Sam nodded, but felt conflicted.

"We'd painted your room pink... She thought you were a girl because she carried you low." There was a softness to John's voice that Sam hadn't heard in years, but he had always associated the tone when John talked about her. He had only mentioned her a few times, usually in passing, when his defenses were down, and usually after more than just a few beers.

Sam remained quiet. He never knew his mother, and what he did know of her came from his pleading as a boy: what color was her hair, was she tall, did she like cookies? Sam clenched his jaw and thought about the stupid questions he had asked Dean all those years ago, when Sam was still too young to understand the consequences of his asks. Dean had answered, yes, she was tall, her hair was blonde, she loved cookies and ice cream, and yes, she had loved him.

"She was in labor for 26 hours." John chuckled and shifted his hand on the steering wheel. "You were stubborn," he glanced at Sam, "even back then." His smile fell, and he swallowed. "I repainted the room before we brought you home from the hospital." He grew silent as memories from a time long ago flooded his mind. John scratched his jaw, and then flipped on the windshield wipers as they hit a rainstorm. He sighed, rested his left elbow on the window well and rubbed his jaw with his hand.

Sam chewed the inside of his left cheek and watched the weather change as they headed further north. Snow still rested in chunks throughout the fields. They passed a semi carrying large equipment, the trucker glanced toward Sam, lifted two fingers in salute and then returned his eyes to the road. Sam nodded in acknowledgement but rested his forehead against the cool glass of his window. He heard his father reach inside the plastic bag for a pork rind, and he listened to the wipers swipe across the shield as the rain increased and slowly turned to snow.

Reigns Medical Research Center had been abandoned in the '60s and stood out in contrast to the beautiful countryside of northwestern Montana. The industrial brick building had been condemned in 1983 after the second story landing failed, sending three high school students searching for trouble, through the floor. Though all three had survived, only one walked away unscathed, the other two suffered broken bones. Windows were broken, doors boarded up, chain-link fencing surrounded the property was labeled with warning signs not to enter. Weeds had grown around the facade and were interwoven within the structure, the bare remains and dead leaves decorated the anorexic entry and exit. The embossed name of the center remained dominant above the main entry doors.

Sam and John stepped from the vehicle and walked toward the old building, and carefully slipped through a predetermined separation in the fence. John had his weapon at the ready, extra supplies tucked into pockets and a knife strapped to his thigh. Sam too, held his weapon at the ready as he followed his father into the old building.

The halls were lined with marble and travertine floors. Dirt, garbage, broken glass, and remnants of furniture rested against the walls. Dust covered cobwebs floated like cotton against the subtle breeze and hung precariously from the corners, ceilings, and frames of the doors.

"Dean!" Sam called, and looked into an abandoned room.

"Sam," John snapped, and motioned for him to remain quiet.

Each room had its purpose. The main office had file cabinets that had been ransacked. Papers were scattered across the floor. Old light fixtures had been removed and wires hung uselessly from junction boxes. Wallpaper was torn, draped like fabric from a form, and revealed the history beneath. The patient rooms were small, a few still held the twin beds, metal frames and springs. Only two held the remains of a mattress. Sam ran his hand across the surface of a wall in a patient's room, the brick had been carved into, marking the days. Other patients drew stick figures, and one room contained sketches of suns and moons.

The medical corridor had been stripped. The furniture was gone, graffiti lined the walls: gang signs, genitals, dedications of love, and random paint tests littered the walls like gum beneath school desks. Like the other rooms, broken glass, garbage, dirt, and animal excrement, filled the corners, and lay along the narrowing paths. Holes had been punched in the walls, and old plaster hung precariously from wall paper and peeling paint.

Sam pulled the EMF reader from his pocket and shrugged when he looked toward his father: no activity. He followed John toward another large room near the back of the building. The cafeteria. The gaping hole to the second story provided unhindered visual access to the rafters and birds could be heard flapping their wings as intruders entered their domain. Two by fours, large remnants of travertine squares outlined the missing floor, and dusty cobwebs floated peacefully on the breeze. The room smelled of mold, dust, garbage, and age. Old metal tables lined the far wall, some were tipped on their side, others were overturned, some leaned vertically against the walls. Buckets, and a large wooden buffet rested near the entry door. The kitchen was blocked off, but very little remained of supplies. The antique stove, sinks, and copper pipes were missing.

Sam paused when he felt a cold chill and stopped suddenly. The EMF reader remained unlit. He paused when he caught a glimpse of a phone beneath the front left leg of the buffet. He picked it up, ran his thumb over the cracked screen and looked toward his father. "It's Dean's," he said, and swallowed. He looked closer at the floor and found boot prints, handprints, scuff marks, and bare floor. He also caught a bloody handprint near the doorframe.

John grabbed the phone from Sam, looked at the marks on the floor and sighed. "At least we know he made it here," he said, and looked around the room. "Damn it, Dean."

"Maybe he lost his phone in a scuffle," Sam shrugged, "his car isn't here, maybe he left –- I'm not getting any readings —"

"You don't find that strange..." John clenched his jaw and looked at his son, "in a place like this?"

Sam scratched the back of his neck and shook his head. "I wouldn't think you'd send him to a place like this without backup."

"I didn't send him."

"No, you just spent his entire life teaching him to be a hunter — to soldier on — to do the damn job you couldn't," Sam clenched his jaw and stood to his full height, "protect the family — protect me!" He shrugged passed his father and walked toward the exit. "He shouldn't have been here alone. Always pair up, always! Isn't that what you always said?" He turned. "What happened between you?" He frowned, weapon lowered to his thigh, but held tight.

John sighed and rubbed his wrist against his mouth. "I get that you're pissed!" he said and flexed his masseter muscles. "I get that I fucked up as a parent –- I guess I should have thrown you a party when you got accepted to school –- but I didn't — I didn't want you to go, alright!" He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. "I did the best I could, Sam, that's all anyone could have asked me to do. I know your childhood wasn't prefect –- nobody's is –- but I made choices based on what I could at the time, and sometimes that sucked! Sometimes those choices weren't choices at all, but I did what I could!

Sam pressed his lips into a thin line and watched his father raise his weapon. "Dad?"

"Sam!" John yelled, right foot planted before the left, and he raised his weapon.

Sam swallowed, clenched his jaw and looked toward the end of the weapon. He felt his heart race, his pulse rushed through his ears. He held up his hands. "Don't."

"Duck!" John fired as soon as Sam hit the floor. Salt rock peppered the wall, door casing, and the edge of the buffet. The birds in the rafters flocked and sent debris through the air as they exited through the broken windows.

John rushed past Sam, still on the floor, and peeked around the door and down the hall.

Sam pushed himself to his feet and followed John who searched the rooms as he moved toward the exit. He kicked down the plywood leading to the outside and inhaled the fresh air while Sam walked toward him.

"What did you see?" Sam asked and turned to look at the building that was outlined by the sunset.

"I don't know," John said, and caught his breath. "I've never seen anything like it." He grasped Sam's shoulder and pushed him toward the truck. "Whatever this thing is," he said as he opened the door, "it knows how to hide."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4

Dean sat on the floor. Back against the bed. Legs crossed at the ankles. The shepherd lay on her side against his left thigh. He ran his hand over her soft coat and tried to piece together what had happened. Why everything was surrounded in darkness? And why his first memory was looking up at the night sky. The shepherd had licked his face, and in surprise he'd sat up. His clothes were filthy, his left jacket and shirt sleeve had been ripped to the elbow, his arm covered in blood, though the long jagged gash had stopped bleeding, it had continued to throb.

He didn't know where he was, how he got there, why his head hurt, or why he was a mess. He could reason, come to conclusions, and analyze his situation, but everything else was black. Slowly he had crawled to his feet, steadied himself against a tree and looked carefully at his surroundings. The little shepherd hung close and didn't interfere as he stumbled forward and fell against a boulder covered with moss, dirt, and dried leaves. It was cold out, and the night chill quickly settled into his bones. He pulled his jacket closed, and then rested against the rock as he looked around the woods with the aid of the moonlight. He could hear dogs barking in the distance, the rustling of bushes and branches, and the occasional animal and bird. Dean had pushed himself up, looked left and right, taken a deep breath and headed east.

Dean rubbed his forehead as he remembered stumbling onto a gravel road, following it, and then hitting pavement. He couldn't remember how far he had walked, but the shepherd walked beside him, keeping pace with his long strides, and glanced up at him on occasion. When he spotted the road sign for Misty, two miles ahead, he had taken a deep breath, tightened his shoulders and tucked his hands into the sleeves of his jacket. He remembered being hesitant to knock on doors and he couldn't think of why. But as he entered town, the lights were off, cars were parked, the town was quiet. His instinct was to hide, take cover, and wait. He had spotted the old garage with several cars parked out front. The building was locked, but he could smell engine oil, gasoline, and brake fluid and he paused a moment, taking in the smells familiar to him. He ran his hand along the curve of the Torus parked out front, then spotted the old Cadillac parked along the right side of the building. The driver's side door was unlocked, and he rubbed the steering wheel a moment, gripped the hard vinyl, and realized through the blackness that this was familiar, this was home, this he could understand and work with. He reached beneath the dash and pulled the ignition wires, exposed the ends, and then sighed when the engine didn't ignite.

The little shepherd sat beside the car, looked up, and waited.

Dean sighed but went to work and within an hour the car was running. He made a motion to get back into the car, but the shepherd jumped in first and took a seat on the passenger side and waited. Dean shrugged, and then took a seat in the driver's side and turned up the heat. His fingers were numb and despite himself he shivered against the cold. He had leaned back and remembered being awoken when Hank knocked on the driver's side window.

Dean rubbed his face, shifted, and raised his knees. The shepherd never moved. A light was on above the small sink and it highlighted the countertop. It was old, but in good shape. A bag of bread rested to the left of the sink, Louis had provided canned soups, deli meat, bottles of water, bread, and apples. He clenched his jaw, looked around the room and tried to find something familiar. He rubbed his temple, rested his elbow on his left knee and tried to control his breathing. He didn't belong. He rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands, flingers laced through his hair, and he squeezed his temples. He took a deep breath, held it a moment and let it out slowly as he relaxed his arms. The things he knew and understood conflicted with what he didn't know — what he couldn't' remember.

Dean knew about cars, he could read, write, perform arithmetic, he knew his manners, knew to bathe and shave and knew to separate colors from white when doing laundry, but he couldn't remember his name, his family, his history, and he couldn't remember why the smell of engine oil brought him comfort — why his pulse slowed when he ran his hands along the frame of a car, or why he couldn't talk. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and sighed.

Dean stood suddenly, grabbed a blanket and stepped out into the night air. The shepherd followed, tail wagging.

Together they both walked across the yard toward the garage, but Dean passed it and walked across the driveway and to the old Cadillac. He opened the door, stood back as the shepherd jumped in and then took his seat on the driver's side. This he knew, this he could handle. He ran his hand over the top of the steering wheel and then tossed the blanket around his shoulders. He lay his head back and closed his eyes.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 5

John rubbed his face as they entered the small town of Misty. It had originally been a logging camp in the early 19th century, and the eclectic atmosphere remained. Sam sat across from him as they drove passed a garage, small high school, a Catholic church, grocery and drug store combination, a gas station with an out of date pump for big rigs, and a local hang out with "Best Damn Pie Around".

John looked at Sam and both said: "Dean."

John hung a left, crossed the road, and parked in the only open spot available.

The restaurant was busy with morning activity. Three farmers and six ranchers had pushed three tables together and drank coffee and gossiped about local news. They had commandeered a coffee pot and a plate of donuts. A young couple sat together at the corner of the room, looking at a map and planning out their next stop. Two truckers sat at the front counter comparing notes and three women sat at a table near the door and shared stories over egg whites, spinach, and orange juice.

John took a deep breath and inhaled the scent of sausage frying on an open stove as well as the aroma of potatoes bathed in heavy butter.

"Take a seat where you can find one," the waitress ordered, and poured coffee for the truckers at the counter.

John and Sam took a seat near the end of the bar and watched her work her magic as she danced between tables, chatted with the locals, and provided information about local attractions. She was tall, slender, with long brown hair pinned at the base of her neck. Her ears were pierced several times, starting at the lobe and around the outer edge. Her name tag read Melvie, and John caught the wedding and engagement rings on her finger as she handed them a menu.

"Everything's good," she said with a smile, and poured them both a cup of coffee. "Coffee's free — we make up with it in different ways." She chuckled and turned to grab the plates of scrambled eggs, sausages and hash-browns for the couple in the corner.

Sam raised his eyebrows and looked around the space. It was clean, but well used. The counter was hand carved wood with a marble top. The coffee pots on the counter behind the bar were in constant flux. A display case showcasing pies was carefully lit and organized to reflect the promise painted on the window. The floor was cement that had been polished, and the walls were covered with local attractions: waterfalls, parks, foot and horse trails, hot springs, and camping locations.

John flipped through the menu and then took a pull from his hot coffee. He pulled his wallet from his back pocket and watched Melvie walk toward them.

"You decide?" she asked and wiped her hands on the apron at her waist.

"Actually—" John started to say.

"He'll have the biscuits and gravy with a side of ham and I'll have your forest hunter omelet." Sam pushed the menus toward her and smiled.

John looked at his son with a frown and nodded. "That would be great." He smiled as he looked toward Melvie. He grasped his wallet and watched her walk away and share the order with the cook. "You want to explain that to me?" He glanced toward Sam.

Sam poured cream into his coffee and nodded. "Yeah," he said, and took a tentative sip. "The last three towns we've been in you've managed to piss people off, shut people up, and make demands when they're not necessary." Sam put the cup down. "I'm trying something new."

John nodded and rubbed his face before resting his elbow on the counter. He took a deep breath and rubbed his thumb over the outside of his wallet. Sam was right, and John knew it. His patience was wearing thin as the hunt for Dean continued. He looked up as a plate of food was placed before him.

Melvie smiled and shrugged. "You boys passin' through or here for the scenery?"

"I'm looking for my son," John said. He opened his wallet and pulled a photo from the confines. "He was headed up here —"

"He was doing research on the migratory patterns of finches," Sam said, and watched John hand the image to Melvie.

Melvie raised her eyebrows and nodded. "Sounds interestin'," she said with a shrug, and took the photo. She took a deep breath and handed it back. "Just because I don't recognize him doesn't mean he hasn't been through." She sighed. "I'm terrible with faces. Best thing to do is talk to Sheriff Taylor — he knows everyone around here." She turned and grabbed a fresh brewed pot of coffee and started her rounds again.

John slowly slipped the photograph into his wallet and sighed. He tapped it on the counter before shoving it back into his back pocket. He listened as Sam cut into his omelet and scraped his knife and fork against the porcelain plate. John closed his eyes. The sound grated on his nerves. He had one son missing – possibly gone due to whatever was in the old hospital – and Sam was along for the ride. John clenched his jaw. When had things changed? When had Sam abandoned everything he had been taught, the values he had learned, the skills he had acquired?

John dug his fork into the gravy and took a heaping bite. His stomach growled in response. Pork rinds and coffee were not enough to sustain him. It didn't take him long to finish and he looked toward Sam who wiped his mouth and rested his napkin on the plate indicating he was finished.

"Ready?" Sam asked. He pulled some cash from his wallet and left it on the counter.

They stopped for gas at the local station, and the attendant didn't recognize the man in the picture, but strongly advised a visit with Sheriff Taylor. They found a room at the local hotel, a small establishment with six rooms, three of which were booked with long haul truckers. John had asked the manager about Dean, and once again, Sheriff Taylor's name was mentioned.

John looked at Sam, clenched his jaw and headed toward his truck. It was later in the afternoon. School busses were out, the sun peeked through the clouds, and the picturesque town settled into an even steady rhythm.

The sheriff's office was a single building just south of the grocery store, positioned near the center of town. A parking lot rested to the left of the building, and two pots filled with plastic flowers rested on each side of the main door. John entered first, followed by Sam. A bulletin board hung on the wall to the left as they entered. Images of the missing, the FBI's most wanted, and the town's local repeat offenders which included a black lab name Henry who liked to chase chickens, and a young boy name Billy Mayor who tended to walk to the grocery store and hide in the novelty section.

A long counter was at the right of the door. The privacy shelf was high enough for most to rest against as they chatted with the local law, and low enough to elude privacy. Four desks were positioned face to face, and a private office with glass windows was stationed at the back. File cabinets, stacks of papers, in-boxes and out-boxes were filled with mail, receipts, reports, and images of hot topics.

The office looked vacant, except the sound of a printer humming. A phone rang and a woman in her mid-forties stepped out from behind a wall and grabbed it. She waved toward John and Sam as she answered a few questions and then hung up the phone. Fraying chestnut hair flowed freely from a bun atop her head. She wore a brown polo with the Latah County Sheriff's Department embroidered on the left shoulder. She had a narrow waist and wide hips, wore cowboy boots, and a long scar peeked up past her collar and disappeared behind her neck.

"What can I do for you," she asked, and stepped to the counter. She looked tired. Dark circles hung beneath green eyes, and mascara had smeared across her left temple.

"I'm looking for my son," John said, and reached for his wallet.

The woman nodded. "Been expecting you," she said, and opened the gate to the bull pen. She motioned for them to follow and she walked to the back office and then knocked on the open door. "Bill," she said, "guests are here." She turned and walked back toward the printer.

Bill turned from the bookcase left of his desk and nodded. He took a deep breath as both John and Sam entered. "Take a seat," he said, and pulled his chair from beneath his desk.

John grabbed his wallet from his pocket, pulled out the warn image of Dean, and handed it to the Sheriff. "I'm looking for my son, Dean, he may have passed through here a while back."

Bill looked at the image, then at Sam and then back at John. The picture was dated, and though it looked like Dean, he had since filled out. The edges of the photograph were warn, fraying near the bottom left corner, and the color had faded. He handed it back and pushed himself against the back of his chair. "And you are?"

"John," he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced. "My youngest Sam."

Sam nodded and stood to shake the sheriff's hand. "Dean likes to travel… a lot, he hasn't answered his phone in a few weeks thought maybe he might have passed through here." He retook his seat and rubbed his hands on his thighs.

"Maybe... tracking the migration of finches?" Bill raised his eyebrows. "This is a small community," he said and rubbed his bottom lip before he leaned forward with his arms on the desk. "Dean Winchester?" he said, and raised his eyebrows when Sam looked toward his father.

"You've seen him," John said, and scratched his nose as he sighed. He leaned back in his seat and took a deep breath. Relief flooded his system, and his shoulders relaxed as he looked toward Sam.

"He's staying with some folks here in town—"

"Where?" Sam stood with the intent to leave.

Bill took a deep breath and motioned for Sam to retake his seat. Bill ran his hand over his face, scratched above his right ear and looked at both Sam and John. He was quiet a moment and met John's eyes.

"Why's my son staying with people?" John asked. He clenched his jaw, squared his shoulders and rested both feet on the floor. Dean rented cheap motel rooms, slept in his car, or shacked up with the occasional one night stand. He did not stay with people.

"Your son has no memory prior to his arrival to town—"

Sam choked back a laugh and looked from Bill to his father as though caught in a bad joke. "Like amnesia?" He raised his eyebrows and shook his head. "Seriously?" He frowned and pushed himself back against his seat.

Bill stood and walked around his desk. He opened the door and called, "Gail, can you grab the box of John and Jane Does?"

"The whole box?" Gail called back from the printer.

"Yeah," Bill said. He left the door open as he walked back around to his seat. "I've been sheriff of this town for 20 years," he sighed as he sat, "and your son is the fourth person I've had come through town missing his memory." He looked up as Gail dropped the box onto his desk.

"I left Annie's in there — just in case," Gail said, she looked toward John and Sam and pressed her lips together. "Hope this one's different." She closed the door as she left.

"What in the hell's going on?" John leaned forward, jaw clenched, eyes hardened and the veins on his neck started to bulge. He rested his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together.

Bill stood and grabbed a handful of files. He flipped through a few, pulled one and tossed it toward John. It landed on the desk. "John Doe, found wandering around in the woods, no memory of anything prior to his waking up in a puddle of mud. He was identified from his driver's license as Randy Humphries, 61 years old, father of three and grandfather of six. His family was contacted — they picked him up... two weeks later he was dead — no record of him regaining his memory."

Bill grabbed another file and tossed it atop the other. "Adam Cafferty, 45-year-old hunter, married, no children, found walking along Meyers Road – beat to shit and no memory – he could read, write, knew manners, but couldn't make connections between the past and present. His wife picked him up and two weeks later he was dead.

"I've got six more cases starting from 1953 to 1970 with the same outcomes — victims woke up in the woods — later identified by their IDs, and their families were notified — all dead within a couple of weeks." Bill continued to flip through the files.

"It wasn't until 1989 that a woman was found under similar circumstances," Bill looked up and Met John's eyes, "she's the only survivor." He held the file before handing it to John. "ID was gone — family never located." He took a seat and tapped his fingers on the remaining files. "When I was elected sheriff," he sighed, "I knew a little about the cases, the rumor mill has a tendency to fester when strange things happen in small towns." He took a deep breath and glanced toward his coffee maker. "I tried to sort fact from fiction, but…" he clenched his jaw and sighed, "it's hard to find facts when the victims can't remember anything—"

"They've got to have some kind of cognitive abilities, reading, writing…" Sam sighed, ran his hand over his face and leaned back in his seat.

Bill nodded. "They all did," he licked his lips, and carefully considered his next words, "most described a blackness, a void of sorts — you'll notice that in the files you're looking at." He shifted and took a deep breath. "I've got three hundred square miles of land to cover, four overworked deputies — one out on maternity leave — I don't have the manpower for an investigation into… the unexplainable.

"Some folks around here think it has to do with Dr. Kentz — he managed the old hospital until his death in 1960. Some associated with him with the Nazi party — claimed he was researching the perfect warier. Gus Harris, local resident, thinks it's the spirit of his aunt who died in that hospital in 1950… I've got farmers out here claiming it's pesticide residue, and teachers who think it has to do with changes in the ecosystem." Bill rubbed his face and sighed.

"What do you think?" Sam asked. He looked toward his father who sat with his elbows on his knees and his fingers laced together.

Bill stood and dumped the old coffee into the pothos plant that had grown around the window that overlooked the drive through coffee stand and had become the high school student hang out. He added fresh grounds to the old and then poured his water bottle into the reservoir. He hit the on button and grabbed a dirty cup from his desk, blew the dust out and stood by the coffee maker as it percolated. He took a deep breath and leaned against the file cabinet. "About 18 years ago a group from the FBI came up here and did some research — I'd only been on the job a couple of years and didn't think much of it, but they fenced off the old hospital, told me to keep kids out and they'd be back to clear the site."

Bill shrugged, turned and poured himself a cup of coffee and retook his seat. "They never came back." He sipped his coffee and placed the cup on his desk. "I'm… I'm not one to believe in what I can't see, I like hard facts and evidence — but I think there is something in that old hospital that is doing this to people. I don't know if it's drug or chemical related… hell," he sighed, "maybe it's paranormal like Gail thinks it is. But something is happening to people out there, and I can't stop it, don't even know where to begin." He looked up when Gail knocked and opened the door.

"Mr. Olson's threatening to shoot Rigby again — Maybell thinks he's off his meds."

Bill stood, grabbed his weapon and slipped it into the holster at his side and then grabbed his hat. "John and Sam need a bit more history on the Doe cases." He met her eyes. "Mind sharing what you think with them?"

Gail cocked an eyebrow. "Can we order a new printer?"

Bill sighed and nodded. "You help them figure out what this things is, you can have a new printer — shit, I'll by one that staples too." He secured his hat on his head and nodded toward Sam and John before he left.

Gail looked at John and Sam. "In case you're wonderin'," she sighed, "Rigby is our town mascot — the Paul Bunyan type carving in the park." She took the Sheriff's seat behind his desk and flipped through a few of the files. "I grew up here." She met John's eyes. "Just because Bill's the sheriff.. don't make him a local."

John met her eyes and nodded.

"People around here love this country, the big sky, the land, shit… even the weather at 20 below. Bill… when he was elected it was big news around here, he beat Sheriff Ails by 500 votes — of course, Ails couldn't find his ass with both hands." She curled her lips into a sarcastic smile. "Bill's good at his job — a bit on the stuffy side but he grows on you."

"Can you tell us about the people who've come here missing their memories?" Sam swallowed and looked from his father to Gail.

Gail nodded and flipped through one of the files "There are several theories — some of the Natives believe that it's a curse, that the land is stealing memories to stop the development of industry — others believe that the souls of the dead haunt the old hospital and take from visitors what was taken from them. Some think that Dr. Kentz, the head physician, stole the memories of his patients to isolate them, to make them susceptible to new ideas."

"What do you think?" John asked and rubbed his temple.

Gail looked up and met his eyes. "I think... I think something was happening in that hospital. I think Dr. Kentz was behind it — whether or not he was working with the Nazi party to create the perfect soldier — one without emotional connections — or he was using his patients as test subjects to perfect the technique of removing memories like some kind of lobotomy... I don't know." She shrugged and crossed her arms on the desk. "I do know, that the people who went up there for treatment, never came back the same... they came back empty." She ran her hand over her face and looked from Sam to John. "The old timers, the ones that met and worked with Kentz said there was something off about him... him and his assistant."

"Are you assuming he was killing his patients?" Sam asked and shrugged his shoulders.

Gail shook her head and sighed. "Dr. Kentz had an assistant by the name of Jan Blythe who disappeared in 1953. Blythe was known as being 'odd', but she knew how to handle patients particularly those who were older and had lived difficult lives." She leaned back and shrugged. "She was always by Dr. Kentz's side — she managed the hospital, took care of the patients, managed all of the hiring and firing of staff, and even assisted the doctor on surgeries.

"Some think that she was smarter than Kentz — that she understood the processes of the mind and knew how to trigger someone — to get an emotional response." Gail shrugged and touched the desk edge with her hand. "I think she figured out a way to steal people's memories… I think she was taking the memories of the old and living our their experiences... taking from them what she never had…" She looked up and met John's eyes.

"You think it's her spirit?" John asked. "That her spirit is stealing memories from people who enter the old hospital?"

Gail shrugged and shook her head. "No," she said, "I don't think she died, I think she's still up there, walking those halls and choosing her victims carefully." Gail leaned forward and crossed her arms and rested her elbows on the desk. "The victims have always been older — except for your son — they've always been people who understand the repercussions of mistakes, who knew what it was like to lose someone, to fall out of love, to understand the concept of grief, anger, frustration, bitterness and betrayal — those are things you learn with age… with maturity.

"That's what life is isn't it?" Gail met Sam's eyes. "It's a process of learning how to manage heartache, to experience excitement, to compartmentalize events in our memory so they don't become overwhelming. Imagine bottling that kind of power — gaining different experiences without having to live though it… but gaining the euphoric feelings of falling in love, grief, happiness... even anger?" She sighed and took a deep breath. "I think memories are her drug of choice."

John sighed and leaned back in his seat. "A human can't live that long—"

"I never said she was human," Gail said.

"But," Sam frowned and tilted his head slightly to the right, "you just said she was up there walking around?"

"I think whatever is left of her is up there walking around. I think there's a reason the FBI never came back to clear the building, or why the EPA has isolated the location as uninhabitable and why testing won't be completed for another 150 years, or why the forest service doesn't monitor the lands around the building despite the fact that the national forest surrounds the property." She adjusted her seat and rubbed the back of her neck. "I know you think this is nuts, hell — most of the people in town think it's nuts — but most of them will tell you the same thing — there is something up there. Locals know to stay away, we've lived with this for... 80 years, but people go up there... some never have a problem. They just explore, snap a few selfies, and continue on their way. Others...

"Others never recover." Gail raised her eyebrows.

"Sheriff said there was a survivor?" John said. He leaned to his left and rested his elbow on the armrest of the chair and rubbed his jaw with his left hand.

"Annie," Gail said. "She lives over at the retirement home."

"Can we talk to her?" John asked and straightened in his seat.

Gail nodded. "She doesn't have any memory of her time before here, she paints though – started painting after she was found and never stopped." She stood and walked around the corner of the desk. "She'll talk about the blackness. Some people claim she's just crazy, but she's not." She exited and listened as Sam and John followed. She grabbed a slip of paper from her desk and wrote down an address and handed it to John. "Don't push her when you see her." She warned. "She doesn't remember her past, and she gets agitated, and emotional because of it."

John took the slip of paper and shoved it into his breast pocket. "My son, I want to see Dean."

"That's not a good idea," Bill said as he entered the station. He tossed his hat to the counter and scratched his brow. "I think you need to understand the situation a little better first."

John stood to his full height, clenched his jaw, and raised his eyebrows. "He's my son — I have a right to see him."

Bill sighed, took a deep breath, and placed his hands on his hips. "Your son arrived here six days ago without any memory of you, his life, where he came from, what his favorite foods are — Hell, the only thing we do know about him is that he's a damn good mechanic and he doesn't talk. His memory—"

"What do you mean he doesn't talk?" Sam said. He stepped forward, jaw clenched, and waited for an answer.

Bill relaxed his shoulders and frowned before he glanced toward Gail. "He reads, writes," he shrugged, "but he hasn't uttered a word since he was found."

"What about the others?" Sam pressed. "Did any of the others not talk?" He shifted his feet and looked toward his father who didn't seem surprised.

"He's the only one," Bill said and grabbed his hat, "at least that I know of." There was a slight hunch to his posture, and he looked tired. "Thought at first he was just mute, but the Doc said it might be something like hysterical muteness — but because we don't know what's causing the memory loss, he can't assume it to be anything."

"I want to see my son," John said and raised his eyebrows.

Bill nodded, pressed his lips together and took a deep breath. "But from my experience, and the experiences of every other sheriff before me... you'll be burying him within a few weeks — I've told you, John, the only survivor has been a woman we never identified, a woman whose family never came looking for her.

"I know you want to see you son, hell, I'd like nothing better than to send him home with you and forget this ever happened, but the fact is... I can't. Right now, he's under my jurisdiction, under my care, and if I take you to see him... I'll be signing his death warrant." Bill frowned and met John's eyes. "He's a good kid, and he needs you," he looked at Sam, "and you, to keep your heads on straight and understand the gravity of the situation."

John swallowed and clenched his jaw. He glanced toward Sam, who looked toward the floor, eyes moving left to right as he thought about their next steps.

"I know what you do," Bill said, "I know what your son does. I've had two hunters come through here the past couple of years lookin' for things I don't believe exist." He scratched his jaw and then placed a hand on his hip. "Help me save Dean's life by figuring this out. Take the reports, look through them, see what you can find... Hell, right now I'd be open to anything as long as it puts a stop to whatever is causing this."

"Anything?" John asked.

Bill met his eyes. "Yeah," he sighed, "anything."

John motioned for Sam to return to the office and collect the files and then he rubbed the back of his neck. "Is Dean alright?"

Bill frowned and shook his head. "He's lost," he said with a shrug. "He sleeps in the front seat of an old Cadillac because he can't get comfortable anyplace else. He eats what's handed to him. And he spends 20 hours a day working on cars. He's exhausted because the only thing he can think about is what he's lost?"

Gail sighed, placed her hand on her hip, and leaned against her desk. "He can't function because he can't put anything into context — he works on cars because that makes sense to him — like Annie with her paintings — it's safe." She rolled her eyes as Sam stepped toward them with a box of files. "When you go talk to Annie. Ask her about her paintings, when she first started and now... you'll see what your son is going through." She turned, grabbed the phone as it rang and then went back to work.

With the box clutched at the grips, Sam cleared his throat at asked, "Do you think it's Jan Blythe, Dr. Kentz's assistant?"

Bill chuckled and shook his head. "Again... I like facts, and until someone can prove to me that a 120-year-old woman is out there stealing memories, I'm going to err on the side of caution and guess that it's a chemical or drug up there —"

"Why would it affect certain people? If it were a chemical or drug everyone who came into contact with it would fall victim, but it's only a select few who suffer?" Sam said, and adjusted his grip on the box.

"Prove something different to me," Bill said. He stepped aside as John and Sam walked passed.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 6

John hated retirement homes. When he walked in he was hit full force with the scent of urine, medicine, and the old. It wasn't the people that bothered him, it was the conditions they were forced to live in. Many left unable to communicate, unable to remember their own history as dementia and Alzheimer's slowly stole their memories. Others remembered everything but were too frail to feed themselves and were left to do nothing but focus on what they had lost and why. There were always a few, a cherished few, who embraced their age with dignity and were not afraid to show it. It was those he felt most comfortable with, those who had lived long enough to speak their mind without fear of consequence or shame.

John watched as Sam stepped passed him, and come to rest on his haunches in front an older woman with silver hair whose smile spread across her face. She wore a red sweater, blue sweatpants, and white tennis shoes. She looked tiny compared to Sam, but she grasped his hand, tapped his cheek, and giggled. Sam smiled and accepted the affection. John and Sam were a lot alike, but it was moments like these when John saw Mary, moments when she could sideline a conversation and force John to think about the actions he had an opportunity to take.

"You look like my husband," she said with a twinkle in here eye, "before the war — he was young, so handsome."

Sam gently grasped her brittle fingers and smiled. He looked up as a nurse's assistant approached and he stood.

"Margaret," the assistant said, "Robert is waiting for his lunch date." She smiled and nodded toward Sam before helping Margaret to her feet.

"Oh good," Margaret said, "the scenery around here was getting a bit overwhelming."

Sam chuckled and watched as they walked slowly down the hall. Margaret hunched at the shoulders, head down, but she talked the entire way.

John had stepped to the right and retrieved Annie's room location at the assistant's desk before he tapped Sam's shoulder and pointed toward the end of the hall. They walked side by side, passed rooms with patients lying in beds, some watched TV, other watched those that passed by their rooms. Some of the doors were decorated with the names of those within, others with welcome signs.

John knocked on the door at the end of the hall and heard, "Come in."

It was a corner room, with windows facing north and west. A bed rested against the window to the west, covered with a handmade quilt and pillows. Paintings covered the walls, and Annie sat on a stool in front of a large 42x48 inch canvas. She smiled, dipped her paintbrush into a tin next to her pallet and wiped her hands on her apron that was covered in paint. She was younger than John expected. Gray was woven throughout her auburn hair, and glasses covered thin eyebrows, and crow's feet. She was tall and slender. She looked comfortable, as she lowered her hands to her lap and turned to face them.

"Annie?" John questioned and stepped aside as Sam entered.

"Yes," she said with a smile.

John introduced himself and Sam and took a seat on the end of the bed at her encouragement. She offered them water but retook her seat on the stool when they declined.

"I spoke with Gail earlier — "

"Isn't she wonderful," Annie said with a vibrant smile, "she takes such good care of her mother, Doris. Doris is a resident her."

John forced a smiled before he looked at his hands and then back to her. "Gail said you came here without any memory —"

"No," Annie said, "it's just... the darkness." She shrugged and looked toward them. "I remember waking up and being terrified — I couldn't remember anything." She scratched her upper lip and looked from the window toward her paintings, purposely avoided eye contact. "I followed the road and then someone picked me up — George I think — he brought me here... It's nice." She shrugged and bit her lower lip.

John clenched his jaw and nodded hesitantly as he looked at the old furniture, donated clothing, and walls that needed a fresh coat of paint.

Sam cleared his throat and looked toward her current painting. "Can you show us some of your work?"

"Yes!" Annie stood and started to flip through the piles of canvases lining her walls. "This is Henry," she said, and handed the canvas to Sam, "he died last year, but he told the funniest stories —" she sighed and met his eyes, "he taught me how to laugh — he was a wonderful soul." She turned and flipped through a few more. "This... this is Agnes — she doesn't talk anymore, but I captured her before the sickness." She handed the painting to John and turned again.

"Annie," John said, "What's this?"

The paintings were photorealistic, dramatic in realism, and tearfully accurate of the portrayal of the elderly. Their surroundings were filled with images of their past, memories associated with family, and objects of sentimental value. It wasn't obvious, not until the viewer took a moment to look and reflect on the images they were seeing.

Annie turned and looked at John and then looked at the painting. "It's the darkness... the blackness," she said, "it's what steals the most precious and curses all of us." She paused a moment. "I see it... I see it everywhere." She tried to force a smile, but failed as her emotions moved to the forefront. "I can't see my past," she looked at the painting, "I can't see my future — I try," she looked up, "but it's gone." She rubbed her forearm. "We don't realize that... we take it for granted... our memories," she took a deep breath, "there is no future without the past," she shrugged with a forced smile, "it's the past that helps guide our future... at least, that's what I've come to believe."

John caught the sight of long scars that ran vertical along the inside of her left arm and he listened to the distance in her voice. Even after so many years, Annie was still a stranger to her surroundings, to her life, and to those that took her in. She wasn't happy, just content, because she didn't know any different.

"I listen to people talk," Annie wiped at her eyes, "and sometimes... sometimes I don't know what they're talking about." She frowned, shrugged, and then sighed. "I don't remember being young, ... I don't remember what I dreamed about— if I dreamed..." she paused and looked out the window before she retook her seat on the stool. "The darkness… it's always there — it's like — losing something but you can't remember what it was — and being frantic because it's gone.

"I wonder," she shrugged, "I wonder if I loved someone," she smiled despite the tears that threatened to fall. "I wonder if I hurt someone… Did I have a family? Did I have children?" Annie met John's eyes. "Everything's covered in blackness, and no matter how hard I try... I can't see through it — everything before that day is just… gone."

Sam clenched his jaw and watched her wipe her cheek in frustration and then look toward the paintings that she had handed to them. "You must have been an artist," he said, and watched her nod.

"Maybe."

"The scars?" John asked and met her eyes.

"Swallowed in the darkness." She shrugged and ran her fingers along the length of the scars. She stood suddenly and flipped through more of her paintings. She paused a moment when she found the one she was looking for and pulled it from the pile. It was smaller than the others. The imagery was blurred in darkness, surrounded by thick black and brown layers of paint. She handed it to John. "This is what I felt after it first happened — I didn't have a connection to anything — other than the people who found me, those that took care of me — painting was all I had. I could talk, but I couldn't connect. I could see, but nothing was familiar. I could hear, but nothing resonated…" she shrugged. "So, I painted."

Sam rubbed his face and looked toward the door. He could feel his chest tightening and the air grow thick. He was out of practice. He'd been in school, learning philosophy, psychology, soft sciences, and pushing through his GECRS to take classes that pertained to his degree choice. He had been living his life without the realization of where his life had started, or why. He looked at Annie and could see a woman struggling to survive. A woman trying to live in a world that she had to relearn and found herself without a foundation to build upon. Sam sighed and looked toward his father. John had been hard, callused at times, frustrating to no end, but he never denied Sam the right to become who he was. His father had given him a foundation, challenging at times, but he knew his values and he followed an ethical code that had been drilled in him at a young age.

"I need some air," Sam said and quickly left the room.

John watched him go.

"He's scared," Annie said. "Did you lose someone to the darkness?"

John nodded and swallowed. "Yeah."

"You should be scared too." Annie met his eyes and then turned to continue her painting.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 7

John found Sam in the truck, window rolled down, right arm on the window well. He looked defeated, eyes sullen, brow furrowed, and lips turned downward. They were both exhausted, both worried and uncertain about their options. John started the engine, felt the truck rock beneath his weight, and drove in silence toward the motel.

"What happens if we can't figure out what caused this?" Sam looked toward John.

John took a deep breath, rubbed his lips with his finger and thumb, and gripped the steering wheel with his right hand. He then shifted in his seat and exhaled slowly. "He's my son, Sam. if I have to, I'll move up here, watch him, take care of him the only way I can—"

"Never tell him who you are?" Sam sighed. It wasn't much of an option.

John clenched his jaw and nodded. "It's a last resort." He flipped the blinker and turned right toward the motel. "I called Bobby — just to see if he could find anything about what we might be dealing with —"

"He didn't know of anything?"

"Said he'd research it." John paused, frowned and then slowed the truck as he noticed a mechanic's shop. "Dean?" He leaned forward, chest pressed against the wheel, and he pulled off the side of the road.

There was a car parked out front, a blue Toyota Corolla with the hood up. A car was on the lift within the garage. An old baby blue Cadillac rested to the right of the garage and several cars and a camper were parked in the lot left of the old building. John shifted the truck into park and watched Dean, who was elbow deep in the guts of a 1950 Ford. John smiled, chuckled and looked toward Sam.

"At least we know where he's at," Sam said, and looked across his father toward the lot where Dean worked.

John nodded but kept quiet as he shifted in his seat and watched Dean work. Sam took a breath of relief and then positioned himself with his back against the door. It was a moment of relief, seeing him, but it was also a moment of frustration. Any other situation, another time, or town, John would simply get out of his truck, call Dean's name and they would exchange a few selected words and then everything would be back to normal.

For a moment, Sam thought about what normal might mean. Was it college and law school? Was it the engagement ring he was too afraid to give Jess that was still tucked in a pocket of his canvas travel bag? Was it butting horns with his dad on things that didn't really matter? Or was it accepting who his dad was without regard to who Sam wanted him to be?

Maybe it was Sam accepting himself for who he was without regard to the man his father and brother wanted him to be?

Sam rubbed his face and looked up the road as a minivan pulled out of a driveway. The driver adjusted her rearview mirror and glanced at her child in the back seat. They were headed to the grocery store, Sam surmised — not because he knew — but because it was a normal thing to do. Maybe they were celebrating a birthday, an anniversary, or maybe they were just missing an ingredient for a recipe that had been passed down for generations. Maybe they were just going for a drive.

Sam looked at his dad, and for the first time in a long time really looked at him. John was tired, his face was drawn, dark circles hung below normally vibrant brown eyes, his twelve o'clock shadow had been ignored long enough to become a full beard. He was graying at his temples, and strands of white were threaded throughout his hair. There was a long-jagged scar on his right hand below his pinky, an injury that hadn't healed right, and the index finger he had dislocated years ago was swollen due to arthritis.

Sam sighed and rubbed his face. "I'm sorry," he said, and looked toward Dean and then back to his dad.

John turned to look at him. "What for?"

Sam shrugged, and felt like a child again. "For leaving the way I did."

John shook his head. "That was my fault," he said, and retuned his gaze toward Dean. "When your mother died... all I could do was think about finding the thing that killed her… I was terrified it would come back for you boys." With his left elbow resting on the window well he cupped his jaw in his left hand. "I never once thought about how it might affect you both." He glanced toward Sam. "I could have done things different — I was just too scared to."

"Didn't think you were scared of anything?" Sam said, and relaxed his shoulders.

John curled his lips into a subtle smile and looked at the road ahead. "When it comes to you and Dean…" he frowned and raised his eyebrows, "I'm scared of everything."

Sam nodded, but averted his eyes toward the road.

John sighed and inhaled deeply. "I never wanted this for you boys..." he paused, moved his hand from his jaw to the steering wheel and ran his fingers along the molds of the vinyl, "I just..." he cleared his throat, "I just didn't know how to do it any other way... protect you both," he glanced at Sam, "keep you in sight and protected, and find the thing that took your mother so it couldn't come for either of you." He clenched his jaw and stilled his hands. "I always knew," he shrugged, "that you'd be safer with me than out there —" John opened his mouth to say something but paused, and inhaled, "I never wanted to keep you from college, Sam, it just... terrified me that you'd be someplace I couldn't be — someplace I couldn't keep an eye on you," he met Sam's eyes, "and I always feared that you'd abandon everything I taught you in an effort to be... normal — to fit in."

John clenched his jaw, pressed his lips together and frowned. "I didn't realize what you'd lost by denying you and Dean," he raised his eyebrows and tiled his head with a shrug, "your childhoods."

"Dad," Sam said, and John shook his head in response.

John frowned, nostrils flared, as he worked to maintain his composure. "Dean taught you to walk," he turned, eyes watered, and met Sam's eyes, "he'd grasp your hands, hold you up, and put you on his shoes and you'd both walk around," he paused, "whatever hotel or motel room we happen to be in." John rubbed his upper lip and glanced toward the garage and watched Dean take a seat on a bucket and go to work cleaning engine parts with a wire brush. "He was six and already teaching you to walk..." He rubbed his eyes and took a deep breath. "I think I cursed him —"

"You didn't curse —"

"the moment I handed you to him that night... the night your mom died..." John watched as the open sign was turned off and an older man stepped out the front door of the shop after closing the garage door.

He was robust, barrel chested and bald. Dirt was powered on his left cheek, and a dirty towel hung from this back-left pocket. He stepped toward Dean, handed him something and patted Dean's left shoulder before the stranger walked toward the Toyota and closed the hood. He slipped into the driver's seat, started the engine, and drove off. Dean watched him go, before resting his elbows on his knees and looking at the auto parts that lay on a towel before him.

"I handed you to him, and he's felt responsible for you ever since... I burdened him with that," John said, and looked toward Sam, "He taught you to walk, Sam, he cut up your food because I was too busy researching monsters, he bathed you when he should have been playing with puzzles and games — he's the one that told me you hated mushrooms and spinach — he was seven." He rubbed his eyes. "He read to you, and he knew your favorite book before I did." John rubbed his jaw and scratched his brow. "Hell, he protected you better than I ever did."

Sam clenched his jaw.

"My fears became his fears," John sighed, rubbed his face, and looked again at Dean, "and I never noticed."

"We'll get him back," Sam said, and watched his father nod.

"Maybe," John said, and shifted the truck into gear and headed back to the motel.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 8

Dean looked at the engine parts and worked to keep those that were salvageable. He rubbed his thighs and embedded engine oil and grease into the fabric of his jeans. The sun was slowly starting its descent and its rays streamed through the branches of the neighbor's trees, cascaded along the pavement, and reflected off the bumpers of cars. The pink hues were a stark contrast to the bulk of the surrounding mountains and the sharp angles of buildings. He could smell food cooking, dogs were barking in the distance, and a radio blared from behind the fence.

He rubbed his face and looked toward the old truck. The engine had frozen, Hank had told him, and he'd never had time to rebuild it. Dean had pushed it up from its parking space against the back fence and opened the hood to find an animal's nest, rusted parts, split hoses, a missing radiator and battery, rust and caked on oil. It was mess, but once he started removing what had to be replaced versus what could be repaired the engine started to look like something with potential. The chassis was in good shape, the tires were old and needed to be replaced and the wheels needed some work, but overall, the old Ford had potential. And, it gave him something to work on.

He was familiar with cars. He understood the inner workings, the complexity of pistons, fuses, alternators, spark plugs, and why air flow was important. He knew how sensitive carburetors could be, and how a faulty fuel line could impact a starter. Dean scratched his jaw and looked toward the shepherd that Hank had named Abby. She lay on her side, relaxing beneath the fading sun's rays.

Dean didn't understand dialogue that referenced television shows he was supposed to have grown up with, or the current political chaos that was referenced on bumper stickers, or why women wore perfume to cover their smell, or why he couldn't remember anything beyond his time in town.

Dean stood, wiped his butt with both hands, and whistled. Abby jumped to her feet and followed him to the office. She trotted beside him as he opened the door and then snuck in behind him. Hank had left him a couple sandwiches on the counter, a soda, as well as a bag of sliced apples. Louis had packed a bag of dog food, and Dean dug out a cupful and dumped it in Abby's dish before placing it on the floor. He grabbed his food, took a seat in the chair by the window and ate his supper.

He had shaved and showered that morning and wore clothing similar to what he was familiar with, but the flannel shirt felt strange against his skin. He tossed his crust to Abby and she gobbled it up, sat by his leg, and rested her head on his thigh as she waited for the next piece. He ran his hand over her face and she closed her eyes and moved her head to accommodate the stroke. He wasn't sure why she stuck around, or why she followed him everywhere. Hank assumed she was Dean's dog and left it at that. Dean though, struggled to connect his affection for the dog to his affection to cars, and wondered what part of himself he was missing in order to make the connection.

Dean gave her the rest of his sandwich as he started eating the apples, and he chuckled when he offered her one and she stuck her nose up at it and returned to a comfortable position on the floor. Hank and Louis had offered him their spare room, but Dean had declined. He was comfortable at the garage, the smells, dirt, and grease were familiar to him, and he felt more at home here than he did anywhere else. He spent his waking hours on cars, before the garage opened and after it closed, and the work kept his mind off of what he didn't know, what he was missing, and the darkness that seemed to chill his soul when things grew quiet at night. He rubbed his hand on the arm rest of the chair and looked out the window toward the camper. With encouragement from Hank he had shifted his nights back to it, but his nights had grown sleepless, and he ended up lying awake, thinking about what he had lost, and why? He wondered if he had a family, if they were looking for him? Did he have kids? Was he married? Were his parents alive? Did he have sisters or brothers? Was anyone looking for him?

He had met a few people from town, most stopped by for automotive advice or to schedule a tune-up. Some brought their families, and they chatted with Hank about things that Dean had trouble referencing, but he smiled, nodded, and pretended to know what he needed to. Hank left him alone and didn't push him. Instead, Hank answered Dean's handwritten notes with a smile and was able to put uncertainties into perspective.

Dean stood, flipped off the lights and whistled at Abby who jumped to her feet and followed him out. He locked the door and headed to the camper.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 9

Sam sat on his motel room bed. Back against the headboard. Forearms rested on raised knees. A half-eaten pizza rested in a box at the end of his bed. He could hear the shower running. The TV was on, but the sound muted. Sam sighed and lowered his right leg and ran his hand over his face. He thought about the things his father had mentioned, the way he talked about his mistakes, and his undeniable fear of what he couldn't control.

Sam didn't remember Dean teaching him to walk, but he did remember some late nights with his brother in bed beside him reading him stories about creatures of the night, heroes and heroines, and fantasies that pulled him into worlds unlike his own. Sam could understand a little of why his father had done what he had, but the conflict of 'why' continued. Revenge had a life all her own: she breathed, fed, and consumed without fear of consequence. A part of Sam felt that perhaps his father understood her, and that he took pride in riding alongside her as he hunted the thing that had taken his mother. It was easy to see, when looking at it from a distance, Revenge was as achievable as Greed, Power, Misery or Corruption — sins that consumed even the humblest of souls.

The shower stopped, and a few minutes later John stepped out, dressed in jeans and a white t-shirt. He was barefoot. He still looked tired, but he took a seat on the end of his bed, scratched the sides of his head, and he took a deep breath. They had exhausted their research and found nothing that could help them identify what it was they were after. The rumors around the old hospital varied to the point of local legend.

When John's phone rang he grabbed it and acknowledged Bobby with a sigh of relief. He put the phone on speaker. "What do you got, Bobby?"

Bobby sighed. "Not much more 'an shit, that I can tell you," he said. "I've dug through just about everythin' I have an' I even reached out to a few of my research buddies to see if they had anythin' for me. Turns out, Frank O'Malley, said it sounded like a Memory Thief, or a Memory Reaper and sometimes referred to as The Darkness—"

"We've heard several people call it that," Sam said and looked toward John.

"Makes sense," Bobby said, "the problem is there's little history on these things — near a I can tell, looks like they steal a person's memory as a source of energy — they're mostly discovered in retirement homes — elderly facilities — they absorb the memories of the old — those with extensive life experiences, happiness, grief, contentment." He took a deep breath and continued. "Looks like they're only seen by those they're after — which why they earned the name reaper — and they appear as darkness with a blurred formation in the center.

"I did find some lore on what is called a Mazeuel — mostly found in ancient nomadic fiction — which as you both know was based on verbal stories, not necessarily historically accurate. These things are alive... they're not dead — it's said that they live in the in-between." Bobby sighed and continued. "They feed on vibrant memories — or memories with strong emotional ties."

"Can you kill it?" John asked and met Sam's eyes.

"Like I said," Bobby continued, "I couldn't find much — but they're repelled by iron. Whatever this thing is you're goin' to have to find the body it's connected to and burn it — just make sure it's in the horizontal position when you do — it's probably buried in a wall an in an upright position. My guess is, the person this thing is connected to was a pain in the ass when they were alive. Watch yourself, Sam, you should be okay, but John — you're carryin' a lot of baggage that one of the things would like experience.

"If it figures out you're after it — you're gonna want to work fast — Frank mentioned these things get violent fast." Bobby sighed.

"Can memories be retrieved?" Sam asked, and pushed himself to the edge of the bed and gripped the bedspread. He looked toward John and clenched his jaw.

There was a long paused before Bobby cleared his throat and sighed. "This thing took Dean's memories?" He swore under his breath. "Damn it! You should have called me—"

"We just found out, Bobby—" Sam said, but was interrupted by John.

"I wasn't sure when I called you," John said. He stood suddenly and exited the room, slamming the door behind him harder than intended.

Sam watched him go and then rubbed his face and finally said, "We found him today — he can't remember anything prior to waking up in the forest."

"He there with you?"

"No," Sam said, "we, ah, haven't made contact with him yet — we've been warned against it — at least until we find out more about this thing." He scratched the back of his head and sighed. "Everyone this has happened to… has died after they're reconnected to their family — there's one survivor in town who has never been identified."

"So maybe reconnecting with family causes some kind of an overload," Bobby said.

"Seems to be the consensus." Sam sighed and took a deep breath.

"Sorry, kid, I don't know what else to tell you, there ain't much on a memory bein' returned. There are a few other legends that reference souls being returned — how much time do you have after you make contact with Dean?"

"Couple weeks."

"Well, shit," Bobby said.

Sam could hear Bobby scratch the stubble on his chin.

"I hate to tell you, Sam, but I think you're gonna need to contact Dean, get him back up to that hospital, an' kill the SOB that stole his memory — leavin' Dean in town may not be the best option — keep an eye on 'im though — that thing stole Dean's memories for a reason, an' if he gets those memories back…" he sighed, "your brother's gonna be a mess— hell, I'd be a babblin' fool gettin' a shitload of memories back in a few minutes when it took a lifetime to collect."

"Yeah, I'm worried about that too." Sam rubbed his face.

"You need me to drive up there — shouldn't take me more 'an… 16 hours or so, faster if I don't hit any speed traps?"

"No, Bobby," Sam sighed, "we may need you for somethin' else if things go south."

They said their goodbyes and Sam sighed as he turned toward the door. He grasped the phone, felt the plastic warm beneath his palm as he thought about the risks. The what ifs? The what next? Sam rubbed his eyes. He missed his brother. The thought of losing him for good caused his heart to burn and ribs to tighten.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 10

It was early, and John shifted his truck into park across the street from the garage. He took a tentative sip of coffee and looked sideways at Sam who drank a sugar-free vanilla latte filled with ice. They were different in a lot of ways, but John saw a lot of himself in his son. They were both stubborn, determined, tenacious, and independent. They both were pensive about things they weren't familiar with, and both relied on research to make decisions. John wondered how both his sons would be different had Mary survived. He thought about her, and absently twisted the ring on his finger. She had helped him be a better man, talking him down when things didn't go his way, encouraging him when he second guessed himself.

He missed her balance.

He missed the way she looked at him when he had done something foolish. The way she laughed when she found humor in his actions. Her strength when he was weak. He missed the way she made him feel about himself. The way she smelled of lavender and honey. The way her makeup drawer was organized chaos, and the fact she only used a few select pieces.

"There he is," Sam said, and pointed toward the old Ford and smiled. If Dean was anything he was persistent.

The garage wasn't open yet, but Dean was poking around the engine again as the early morning sun peaked over the mountains and reflected off surrounding windows. The country was beautiful. And with the early rays came the songs of birds, and the echoes of the living. The early spring was causing the trees to bud, grass was turning dark green, and the crocuses were blooming. A light layer of pollen dusted the cars parked along the street. The small-town community was warm, but weary of guests. John understood, small towns had way of creating a community of extended family. Everyone knew everyone else, and secrets were everybody's business.

John watched Dean walk to the driver's side door and grab his cup of coffee off the hood and take a sip. Memory or not, Dean's actions were all his own, and he felt comfortable within the lot of old cars, broken parts, and stalled engines. John chuckled.

"What?" Sam asked, glancing from Dean to his dad.

"Even when he was a kid he was taking shit apart and putting it back together — and while it may have been childproofed, it wasn't Dean-proof." John smiled and rubbed his chin as he pulled at the memories. "Your mom would get so frustrated — he took the camera apart, the phone, even the radios — couldn't leave anything in his reach — kid's hand-eye coordination was bullet proof." John paused and then dropped his smile as he looked toward Dean, and remembered teaching him how to clean weapons, how to salt the windows and doors, how to hide and protect Sammy from the unknown.

Sam looked toward the road as the owner of the garage drove up and parked next to the old Ford. He slipped out and handed Dean a bag and said something before heading to the garage office to flip on the open sign and roll up the garage door.

"Ready?" John said with a deep breath. He opened the door and stepped out. The cool morning air hit his skin and he closed his eyes for a moment as he played out his next moves. Were this anyone else, it would be easy, but for the first time in long while, John felt his nerves fray.

"Yeah," Sam replied and followed.

Hank looked up as the strangers opened the door and stepped to the desk. He smiled and finished pouring his cup of coffee. "What can I do for you?" he asked. He pulled a notepad and pen from the top drawer and tossed it to the counter.

"I'm here for my son," John said, and pulled an image from his wallet and handed it to Hank.

"Dean's your son?" Hank sighed and handed the picture back. "Sheriff said you'd be by — he also said for your son's sake to stay away... at least until he could figure somethin' out that could be done to help him."

John nodded and looked out the window as Dean continued to work on the engine. "We have."

Hank nodded and glanced out the window and then toward Sam who stood by the door. "Seen a lot of folks come through here that died because of what's out there." He held his cup by the handle and swished it enough to cool it. "Most of those folks had lived good lives, had families — never seen anyone come through as young as him." He turned toward his desk and grabbed his phone. "Sheriff is gonna want to be here for this."

John nodded and took a step back. He crossed his arms over his chest and watched as Sam took a seat in the chair next to the door. The office was clean, the bulletin board organized with keys, names, and receipts. John looked toward the garage and found it just as tidy. He listened as Hank spoke on the phone. The shop smelled of grease, fuel, and rubber. John found comfort in his surroundings. He heard the click of the phone being replaced on the receiver and watched Hank take another pull from his coffee.

John turned and looked out the window as a tow truck pulled up with the Impala. He motioned for Sam to look as well and watched Hank leave the office. John swallowed and watched as the car was slowly lowered and unhooked from the tow. Hank met with the truck driver and they laughed. Papers were exchanged, more small talk ensued, before Hank returned to the office as the Sheriff parked his Bronco in the driveway.

Dressed in his small town, big county attire, Sheriff Taylor walked with Hank to the garage. Bill whistled and then laughed as he looked around the space. "Haven't seen it this clean since… shit, Hank, ever," he said as he entered the office. "Hell, even the calendar's set to the right day." He nodded toward Sam and John, and then rested his right elbow on the counter and relaxed his hips.

"It's never been unorganized," Hank said, and took a seat in his chair.

Bill raised his eyebrows and sighed. He ignored Hank and focused on John. "You sure about this?" he asked.

John sighed and took a deep breath. "No, but I have to try."

"So, what do you think's causin' this?" Bill asked.

John scratched his jaw and stood firm with his back to the door. "You know the things we hunt... I've seen things... killed things... and witnessed things that can't be explained," he raised his eyebrows and sighed, "this, is one of those things."

Bill raised his eyebrows. "Care to explain?"

John met Bill's eyes. "Actually," he cleared his throat, "I think it would be better if you went with us—"

"Dad?"

"Dean's down, Sam, we need someone else up there while we look for this thing — Sheriff has some training and can help us keep an eye on your brother while we find this thing." John looked from Sam to Bill. "You said you'd be open to anything... did you mean it?"

Bill clenched his jaw and nodded. "What do you need?" He glanced toward Hank who shook his head.

John took his jacket off, tossed it over the armrest of a chair, and rolled up the sleeves of shirt. He looked toward Sam. "Take the sheriff out and show him what we might be up against."

Sam stood and looked toward his father. "You sure about this?"

John frowned. "Wasn't asking permission."

Sam nodded, and not as responsive as Dean, he understood the soldiers duty to obey an order. "Sheriff?" He asked and tilted his head toward the door.

Bill nodded and looked from John to Hank. Bill hooked his left thumb into his belt and took a step forward to stand shoulder to shoulder with John. "I hope you know what the hell you're doin'."

John sighed and caught his eyes. "Me too."

Bill nodded and followed Sam toward the Impala.

John took a deep breath, opened the door, and headed toward the old Ford.

John paused at the edge of the pavement and looked toward the truck. Dean was still elbow deep in the engine, pulling parts and getting the engine prepped to be pulled. His jeans were covered in grease, dirt, grime, and oil. His flannel shirt was torn near the hem on the left side, and his tee-shirt was tucked into the waistband of his pants and belt. Despite not having seen him for several years, Dean looked good.

"Dean?" John said and stepped beside the front wheel-well.

Dean looked up, paused what he was doing, and wiped his hands on a rag he'd pulled from his back pocket.

"I'm John." He shook Dean's hand and smiled as he glanced at the engine. John winced and felt his chest tighten. There was no recognition in Dean's eyes, no acknowledgement of familiarity. "You, ah, rebuilding the entire engine, or are you gonna replace it?" He leaned forward, rested his forearms on the rim and watched Dean shrug. "Looks like the header's cracked."

Dean nodded and pulled a notepad and pencil from his back pocket and wrote, rebuild — custom, on the top sheet and showed it to John who read it and smiled.

"My stepdad had a truck like this — taught me to drive in it." John stood and ran his hand along the curve of the frame. He glanced toward Dean who kept a suspicious eye on John as he walked around the back of the truck and toward the passenger side. Memory or not, there was more than just his affinity with vehicles that Dean instinctively understood. "Had terrible gas mileage," John chuckled as he approached the front. "I was always partial to Chevys."

Dean turned and pointed toward the truck across the street and then looked back at John.

"Yeah," John said. "Rebuilt her from the ground up… my son helped me." He swallowed and looked at Dean. While Mary had always said Dean had taken after his father, John always swore Dean had his mother's eyes, expressive, mischievous, and sorrowful in moments of misunderstandings.

Dean nodded, clenched his jaw, and took a step back as John stepped toward the front bumper of the truck, arms crossed over his chest. When John pointed toward the Impala, the sheriff and the young man standing beside him, Dean turned to look and then turned back toward John. Dean swallowed and felt his blood race through his veins as confusion clouded his mind. Unfocused, Dean glanced from the truck to John and back toward the sheriff before searching for Hank. Dean caught site of Abby, laying on the ground by the front wheel of the truck, ears perked forward, eyes wide open.

"That's your car," John said, and glanced toward Dean and watched him frown. "I gave it to you when you turned 16." He paused, tilted his head slightly to the left as he waited for a response. "You helped me rebuild that old truck — even made the modifications to the fuel line to improve mileage."

Dean took a step back, clenched his jaw, and frowned. He felt dizzy, uncertain, confused, and afraid.

"I know what happened, Dean, I know you went up to the old hospital looking for something — I know it took from you." John lowered his hands. "I'm your father, and that tall kid standing by the sheriff is your brother Sam — we've been looking for you." He reached into his back pocket and retrieved his wallet. He flipped though the billfold and pulled a picture and handed it to Dean who was slow to take it.

Dean looked at John before he glanced at the picture. He exhaled as ran his thumb over the image of himself, Sam, and the Impala. He didn't remember any of it. He didn't remember John, Sam, the car, or going to a hospital to look for anything. He looked up and met John's eyes before glancing back at the picture. Dean turned and looked toward Sam, clenched his jaw, and sighed before handing the picture back with a shake of his head and shrug of his shoulders.

John took the picture and returned it to his wallet. "It's okay," he said. "I know you're confused." He took a step forward and was relieved when Dean didn't take a step back. "You need to come with us, with your brother and me." John sighed when Dean met his eyes. "We need to take you back up to that hospital and find what did this to you — it's the only thing that might work—" John paused when Dean wrote on his writing pad and flipped it upright for him to see. John sighed: "No, I don't know for sure if it will work."

Dean pressed his lips and looked toward the garage and the old truck before writing on his pad again. He lifted it and waited for John to reply.

John glanced toward Sam and back toward Dean. "I don't know what happens if we can't find it — but we have to try."

Dean nodded but paused. He winced and then pressed the heel of his right hand to his temple as sharp pains erupted his head. He closed his eyes, eyelids tight as he tilted his head to the right. He glanced toward John and met worried eyes.

"You alright?" John asked and stepped forward.

Dean nodded and felt a sudden rush of blood from his nose. He pinched his nostrils and, in the process, smeared blood across his upper lip, chin, and across his hands. John pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, and then forced his hand over Dean's nose.

"Tilt your head back, son," John said, and pressed his right hand to the back of Dean's neck. "Sam!" He looked toward his youngest.

Sam pushed himself away from where he had been leaning against the car and trotted toward them. Bill followed at a quick pace.

"Hey," Sam said, "everything okay?" He placed his hand on the back of Dean's left shoulder and smiled when Dean sent him a side glance.

John released his hold on Dean's neck and slowly pulled the handkerchief away from Dean's nose to check if the bleeding had slowed. Relieved that it had, he stepped back and watched Dean wipe his nose, check his fingers, and then looked toward Sam and Bill.

"You alright, son?" Bill asked and placed his hands on his hips.

Dean rubbed his upper lip again, nodded, and swallowed before he glanced toward Abby who was still seated but looked up at those around her.

"We need to get moving — I don't want to be hunting this thing at night," John said. He kept glancing toward Dean and noticed Sam hadn't taken his eyes off his brother.

"Keys to the Impala are gone," Sam said, "stuff's still there."

Dean reached into his pants' pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He handed them to John before walking toward the camper to clean himself up. Abby followed at a trot, staying close to his side.

Sam watched him go and clenched his jaw. It looked like Dean, but a shadow of what Sam remembered before leaving for college. He glanced at his father and watched John speak momentarily with Bill, nod and then hand Sam the keys to the Impala.

"I want you to take Dean with you — hell, maybe something about that old car will trigger a memory... something. I'll take the lead," John said and glanced toward the camper. "I… I don't want to wait any longer to find this thing — I don't think Dean has that kind of time."

Sam nodded and squeezed the keys in the palm of his hand. He looked up as Dean exited the camper, face cleaned and wearing a clean shirt. He looked nervous, and looked to Bill for reassurance, but didn't find comfort in the sheriff's demeanor. Abby followed, alert, and ready to go.

"Ready?" John asked.

Hank whistled, and then squatted on his haunches before Abby could jump into the car. She paused, looked toward Dean and then looked toward Hank. "I'll watch her," Hank said, and pulled a bag of jerky from his pocket. He smiled when she trotted his way. He looked up and met Dean's eyes. "She'll be fine... she can help me with an oil change."

Dean nodded, clenched his jaw and looked toward Sam who smiled and motioned for him to follow. John turned and walked toward his truck. He could hear footfalls behind him. He opened the door in time to see Sam open the driver's side door of the Impala and Dean took the passenger side. Hank stood at the garage door, waved, and sent a last look toward John before falling into the shadows of his shop. Abby sat near the door, watched the cars drive away before she lowered herself to the cement, rested her head on her front legs, and waited.

Sam gripped the steering wheel and shot sidelong glances toward Dean who rubbed his thumbnails with his index fingers. His hands rested on his lap, and he looked out the passenger side window as they drove the two-lane highway. Evergreens, barbed wire fencing, a few cattle and horses could be seen from the road. Farmers and ranchers had claimed what land they could, the rest was left to the hands of nature.

"You call her, Baby," Sam said and looked toward Dean who met his eyes. "The car."

Dean nodded and flinched when he returned to look out the window.

Sam sighed, frowned, and took a deep breath. He paused a moment and thought about what he might say. What could he talk about that Dean would understand. Sam sighed when he realized what the conversation might be. Dean was hallow, a shell of his former self, and Sam watched Dean shift from rubbing his thumbs to pinching at the fabric of his jeans. He was nervous and probably terrified.

"Dad bought her back before you were born — said she was a classic, even back then." Sam glanced sideways.

Dean continued to look out the window.

Sam sighed. College had been a distraction, a place of escape. He spent his time in books, writing papers, planning his semester classes, attending events and meeting people. He had loved it. The late nights, early morning tests, the protests, student rallies, and the challenges of thinking outside of the box he grew up in. College enabled him the opportunity to ignore the problems back home, not dwell on his frustrations with his father, or spend his days researching their latest hunt, sleeping in rundown hotels or the back seat of the car. He'd missed Dean, missed the banter and pranks that evolved to dangerous levels, missed those conversations that touched on topics of intimacy and never evolved. Dean had never talked about his feelings — he avoided chick flick moments like the plague — but Sam missed those subtle moments that captured his brother in his entirety: bad pick-up lines, bad timed jokes, his dry sense of humor, his drive to right a wrong, or his ability to put himself aside for his brother.

Sam looked toward Dean again. "I know this isn't going to mean much to you right now, but when this all over," he cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck, "I just want you to know that I remember you taking care of me when we were younger." He glanced toward the road and looked back toward Dean. "I know you were there for me... when dad wasn't."

Dean frowned and shook his head. He didn't understand the context, the sorrow in Sam's voice, or his hesitancy to say the words. He looked back out the window toward the landscape and sighed.

Sam relented with a nod. He rested his elbow on the window well and relaxed his shoulders. He looked one more time toward Dean and wondered if he would remember anything about his life, or if the thing that took him would prevail.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 11

It looked the same. The old hospital hadn't changed in the past few years, at least since Bill had walked the empty halls looking for kids drinking beer and smoking pot. It still stood strong and in contrast to the vast wilderness surrounding it. The parking lot had been overgrown with choke weed, morning glory, mustard and downed trees, moss crept up the sides of the brick of the hospital, and mushrooms appeared as the moist ground provided the perfect setting for fungus. Bill sighed as the midday sun shone like a hallo over the brick embossed name above the entrance.

Dean stood next to the parked Impala and looked toward the building. He pulled his shoulders together, and shoved his hands into his pockets as John and Sam gathered their supplies. Dean turned when he heard his name called and looked toward John.

"You and Sam stay together," John said, and nodded when Dean acknowledged him with a nod and shrug of his right shoulder. "Sam, keep and eye on him — he's —"

"Gone," Sam frowned. "I've got his back," he reassured. "Just find this thing so we can get outtta here."

John handed Sam the sawed-off and looked toward Bill. "Your bullets won't work in there — you need iron," he handed Bill a weapon, "whatever you see that comes at you — shoot it — just like I told you earlier — you can't hesitate."

Bill nodded. "Tell me again what I'm looking for?"

"You'll know it when you see it," Sam said. "And you'll never forget it." He turned toward Dean, "Stay close."

John took point, followed by Sam, Dean, and then Bill who cautiously took up the rear. Weapons were held at the ready, and John carried a backpack on his left shoulder filled with salt, fuel, two lighters, and a maul axe. He took his time looking in rooms, checking the doors and windows. He peeled back wall paper searching for signs or clues that could lead them to the remains.

A cold breeze whistled through the long hall, followed by the flutters of wings as the birds in the rafters shifted, ready to flee. John entered the cafeteria and motioned for the others to be on alert as he continued the search. Dean looked wide eyed at the hole above them, the way the sun's rays caught dust particles and highlighted the architecture of the old building. Despite its age, history, and current condition, the building had been a place of comfort for some. Guests had eaten together at tables, they had shared stories of their families, friends, and those they had lost. Food had been cooked and prepared behind the serving counter, and for a moment, Dean caught the scent of something familiar. He looked toward Sam and then toward John in hopes they had caught the scent as well, but Dean frowned when he realized they hadn't. He watched both men carefully checked each corner, windows, doors, and around the tables. Sam tapped on the walls, listening for something.

Dean swallowed and stepped toward the center of the room and looked up. The rafters held strong and he could see blue sky through the holes in the roof. The floor above had been broken through and Dean wondered what had caused the collapse. He could see sections of flooring hanging precariously from plywood, the broken and snapped beams had failed over years of abuse. Dean could hear voices as Bill and John cleared rooms, and he could hear Sam drag his feet as he moved from section to section looking for something Dean didn't comprehend.

The flaps of wings caused Dean to glance toward the kitchen and he stepped forward, glanced at Sam and then watched John and Bill exit the room to search the bowels of the building. John barked orders, Sam nodded and glanced toward Dean, and then walked out the door and down the hall. Bill followed, gun at the ready, hairs on the back of his neck on end, and eyes alert.

Dean tried the door to the kitchen and sighed when the door didn't give. He looked over the serving counter and saw where the appliances had been, pipes, wires, and discolored walls remained. Garbage littered the floor, beer bottles, fast food wrappers, and papers. A stack of dishes lay broken next to some empty metal shelves.

"Dean," Sam said, "stay close, man — who knows where this thing is."

Dean nodded and stepped back from the kitchen and looked toward the buffet that was positioned to the right of the door and toward the tables piled against the far wall. He watched Sam position himself along the wall and flash his light beneath the tables and behind them. He tapped the walls where he could reach and sighed.

"Help me move these," Sam said, and pulled a table away from the wall to rest his flashlight on.

John entered the surgical wing of the hospital. He could hear Bill following close behind. The rooms hadn't been touched and suffered the effects of time. Broken windows, mold, and rust ate at metal, garbage collected in corners and against baseboards. Graffiti had been sprayed throughout and on random walls. Drywall had been busted through and large holes now accompanied old wallpaper and plaster. John sighed and peered into a room off to the side of the surgery. He caught a glimpse of sinks, a closet, and an old poster that had been pulled from the wall and was left to weather on the floor.

"This place is empty, John," Bill said, and relaxed his shoulders. He held his weapon at his side. "I ain't real sure what it is you're lookin' for?" He scratched his neck and watched John peek inside a closet and then turn to look at him.

"We're looking for a place someone might've hid a body," John said, and looked at Bill. "Someplace a body could be placed upright."

Bill sighed and muttered, "Needle in a haystack." He scratched his forehead and rubbed his temple as he glanced at the door and took a step back to look down the hall.

"You said the first documented case was in 1953," John said. "Same year that Jan Blythe disappeared — Dr. Kentz's assistant?"

Bill nodded. "Don't know if it was a disappearance — nothing was ever reported."

John closed his eyes and thought about the cases he had worked, the oddities, the subtle nuances that broke cases wide open. "When was this building built?"

Bill sighed and shrugged. "It was originally a sanitarium for tuberculosis patients back in the 1880s, until it was converted to a research hospital in 1910 — Dr. Kentz came on as lead physician back in... 1935 — he was German, had a difficult time finding work in the bigger cities."

"And Blythe?"

Bill shook his head and frowned. "Stories are she was strange, had a way with the old, kept to herself and lived in the hospital with a few other staff members — wasn't all that unusual back then. Staff lived in the quarters at the other end of the hospital, the large rooms we looked in after we first entered the building. Don't have a clue to which one would have been her's."

"What about Kentz — he live in the hospital?"

"No, he had a house in town — it's the old restaurant now." Bill rubbed his brow and shrugged. "Why are we lookin' for someone buried upright?" He sighed and looked toward John. "I get why you do what you do, but I haven't ever seen anything around here that would be considered… supernatural, paranormal, or belonged on Ripley's." He scratched his jaw and looked toward the hall again. "People up here are simple, they mind their own business, work honest livings, and do their best to stay out of the way — hell, most consider themselves survivalists. Everyone up here knows or has heard stories, but nobody has ever come forward and claimed that they've been haunted — possessed — or sold their soul for anything other than a good cup of coffee with old friends."

John nodded but kept his weapon at the ready. "I get why you're frustrated, but you have to realize that the world isn't made up of good ol' folks and their simple ways of life." He took a deep breath. "There are things out there that… That I don't know how to describe, and I can't sit here and babysit you while you contemplate the realities you're surrounded by.

"There is something here. There is something living off the memories of people who have ended up here for," John shrugged, "for whatever reason — and right now, the only thing I care about is getting my son back, killing whatever is doing this, and getting the hell out of here."

Bill sighed. "So where in the hell do we look?" He glanced at his watch and ripped the handle of his weapon tighter. "I want to help — I'm up here, despite my better judgement, because I want to find out what's doing this as well — this is my town, and I always wonder who's next?"

John sighed, clenched his fingers around the handle of the sawed-off shotgun. "When you came up here the first time… Gail said the townsfolk don't consider you a local—"

Bill chuckled and shook his head. "Yeah, still don't." He shrugged. "Why?"

"You remember any place that made you uncomfortable — maybe was colder than the rest of the building — maybe you smelled sulfur?"

Bill clenched his jaw and rubbed his temple. "Shit, that was… fifteen — twenty years ago when I first walked through here —"

"And nothing stuck out about it?"

"Yeah, I thought havin' the cafeteria and Dr. Klatz office right next to each other was odd," Bill shrugged, "so maybe he liked watching his patients' eat."

"I didn't see an office?"

Bill raised his eyebrows. "Probably because the tables get piled up against the door — it's an office, not a dungeon."

John clenched his jaw and walked out of the room and back toward the cafeteria. Bill followed and picked up his pace to keep up with John.

"There's a door," Sam said, as he and Dean moved the last table out of the way. Sam slapped his hands on his thighs and looked up in time to see John and Bill reenter the room. "Find anything?"

John shook his head and flashed his light toward the door. The hand engraved sign read, Dr. Elvin Kantz, hung at eye level on the heavy oak door. The brass handles and hardware contrasted the wood and door frame.

Dean looked up as the birds fluttered and quickly exited the building, sending feathers, dirt and shit toward the floor. He moved out of the way and then watched John grab the handle of the door and push it open. The door squeaked from years of underuse. John flashed his light, and captured sight of an old wooden desk, file cabinets to the right, an exam table to the left, with old metal cabinets filled with medical supplies: ointments, brown bottles, surgical instruments, bandages, and a few flies were spread out along the cabinet counter.

John entered the room and held his flashlight higher to illuminate what he couldn't see. Sam, did the same as he followed. It was windowless, stuffy, and while the room should have been covered in dust — it wasn't. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise and he looked toward Sam who looked through the files to his right, and then toward Bill who stood in the doorway, pointing his flashlight toward the exam space of the room. John stepped forward, opened the cabinets and then sighed. He looked through the portable exam hutch, and then quickly started looking through the drawers of the desk.

"Dad?" Sam said, and pulled a thick old tablet from behind the cabinet. He flipped through the first couple of pages, carefully shining his light on the photorealistic images of individuals, some laughing, some angry, some content and some capturing moments of time. Graphite had smeared across some of the pages, and a few pages were so old that the paper was fragile, splitting in the areas of stress. Sam paused a moment, inhaled deeply and shuttered. He looked up and met his father's eyes.

John glanced at Sam, saw the uncertainty in his eyes, and then looked at the image before him. John's chest tightened, his pulse raced, and blood pumped rapidly through his veins. He looked at the image, a graphite image of himself laughing with Mary, his hands on her belly. John caught his breath and looked toward Dean who continued to stand behind Bill, oblivious to his own memory. John swallowed and looked back toward the picture and then flipped to the next. He sucked in a quick breath and wheezed as his throat tightened. He remembered the moment, the look on Mary's face as she faced certain death, the fear for her boys, and fear for herself while pinned to the ceiling of Sam's bedroom, bleeding from her belly, fire igniting behind her. He remember the scent of her flesh burning.

The wail pierced the air and both Dean and Bill covered their ears and ducked while Sam and John raised their weapons toward the door. The high-pitched scream shattered the glass of the medical cabinet and the antique medial bottles.

"What the hell?" Bill said as he stood. He pressed the heel of his right hand to his temple and looked toward John.

"Sam, you see anything?" John kept his attention on the door and glanced toward Dean who had backed against the wall.

"Nothing," Sam said, and adjusted his finger on the trigger.

John quickly folded the images and shoved them into his breast pocket. "We need to find that body." He stepped back, weapon held tight, and he grabbed the medical cabinet and pulled it forward. Wood splintered, already broken glass shattered, as the cabinet succumb to John's anger and bitterness. John shrugged the backpack off his shoulders and grabbed the maul axe. "Watch the door and keep an eye on your brother!"

Sam nodded and mouthed, thank you, to Bill who had grabbed Dean by the right arm and drug him into the room. Dean fell against the file cabinet and he watched John work to demolish the walls. He swung the axe and smashed though the old wood and plaster, sending remnants to the floor and dust through the air. Unsatisfied with his work, he moved to the next wall and started the process over. Sam jumped when Dean stepped backward and fell to his butt and then pushed himself into the back corner, eyes wide in terror, jaw clenched, Adam's apple bobbing franticly. Sam raised his weapon when he saw it, moving like a shadow across the cafeteria. The form shifted, taking on the shapes of the faces portrayed in the drawings.

"Dad!" Sam yelled and then watched in horror as a hand materialized from the darkness and pressed its fingers against Bill's temple.

Sparks ignited, and Bill screamed. He dropped his weapon, clutched his head, and fell just as Sam fired his first shot. The darkness scattered. Bill gasped, pushed himself up to his elbows and tried to control his breathing.

"You alright?" Sam asked, and quickly reloaded his weapon. He could hear his dad work to pull down more of the walls, the swings of his axe followed quickly by grunts and gasps for air.

"Fuckin' peachy!" Bill snapped. He grabbed his weapon and leaned against the doorframe. "What in the hell was that?" He looked wide eyed at Sam and then pressed his fingers to his eyes. "Fuck!" He inhaled deeply and caught his breath in his throat and then with watery eyes looked back toward Sam.

John yelled, dropped the axe, and fell to his knees clutching his head when the darkness surrounded him.

"Dad, get down!" Sam yelled and fired.

John gasped, and rested on hands and knees, head bowed. "Sam," he gasped as he choked back a sob. "It's," he pushed himself up and pressed his hands to his thighs as he rested on his haunches, "it's pulling at memories — but…"

"It's getting a taste for them," Bill said, still seated, legs before him, right hand clutching his weapon. He wiped his eyes, clenched his jaw, and swallowed.

John grabbed the handle of the axe and struggled to his feet but fell as the memories and pain of his past became overwhelming. He could see her,… Mary… clear as day, and his heart clenched at the grief of losing her again. John covered his eyes — as her scent of honey and lavender overwhelmed him, and then suddenly changed to the scent of burning flesh.

Dean slowly stood, and kept his eyes on the door, Sam, and John, he guided himself toward the exam side of the room with his hands along the wall.

"Dean?" Sam said, weapon still raised and pointed toward the door.

Keeping his eyes on as much as the room as he could, Dean leaned forward and grasped the handle of the axe still lying next to his father's knees. Dean glanced toward Sam, and then toward John who's hands still shook. Dean swallowed and took a hefty swing toward the wall.

"It's coming back!" Sam yelled and tightened his grip on the weapon. "Dad!"

John struggled to his feet but fell again when a headache sent a sharp pains through his temple. "Shoot it, Sam!" He wiped the blood from nose and onto the thigh of his left leg. "Bill?"

"I see it," Bill said, and clenched his jaw. He fired a shot and the darkness disappeared once again.

Dean continued to punch holes in the walls, searching for the remains. He stopped suddenly when the blade of the axe connected with something solid. He yanked on the handle and pried the plaster and drywall away from the wall, slowly at first and then frantically as he revealed a tall narrow wooden box nearly four feet in height. The dark walnut had been engraved with symbols, and the wood had been stained and finished. Dean continued to reveal more of the piece.

They all covered their ears, when the sharp wail of a scream penetrated the room with such vigor that the files and desk shook. Sam fell back against the wall and watched the darkness encroach, it shifted and morphed as it approached. Sam raised his weapon, but the scream intensified. Dean fell onto his left hip and shifted his feet beneath him.

John grasped the edge of the box and yanked it from its position between two studs. It fell forward, and the hinges broke. He reached for it but felt the sudden and painful bursts to his temple crippled him as the darkness swarmed. John fought back a scream and a growl erupted from the back of his throat.

Dean, with his right ear pressed against his shoulder and his left hand covering his left ear he grasped the box with his right hand and flipped it over, exposing the bones and remains of Jan Blythe. Her bones had been broken to ensure she fit in the narrow confines. The symbols carved on the outside of the box were carved on the inside as well, and Dean jumped back when the screaming stopped. He looked up and came face to face with the darkness. It swirled around him and then suddenly the high-pitched screaming started again. Dean covered his ears and looked up in time to see the blackness surround Sam.

"Salt and burn it, Dean," John gasped, his nose continued to bleed, and he covered his ears with his hands. "Burn it!"

Dean grabbed the backpack and pulled it toward himself. He dumped the contents onto the ground and quickly scattered salt over the carcass and then grabbed the tin container of fire starter. He looked up when Sam screamed, and quickly dumped the fluid onto the body, on the wood and grabbed the lighter.

Just as the flame danced to life, the darkness turned, and in a burst of fury threw Dean backward toward the tattered wall. The lighter fell and landed with a burst of flames in the casket of the woman they'd hunted. She wailed one last time, and the blackness twisted, sparked and finally disappeared.

Dean groaned when he landed against the wall and struggled to inhale. He propped himself onto his knees and elbows. He gasped suddenly, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and pushed himself back against the wall. He struggled to breathe, as breaths came in short shallow bursts.

"Dean?" John said, and he looked from the remains to his son. Slowly, John used the wall to push himself up. "Dean?" he said again and stepped closer to where Dean struggled to get his feet beneath him, desperate to catch his breath. "Son," John rested on his haunches and reached for Dean's left arm.

"It's all I see," Dean gasped, hands still pressed to his eyes, fingers laced through his hair. "She won't stop," he sobbed, "she won't stop looking at me," he leaned forward, but felt his father grab his shoulders.

"Dean?" John said and placed his hands behind Dean's head as he pulled him forward. John turned and looked toward Sam for help but realized he couldn't.

"She won't stop," Dean exhaled, and suddenly caught his breath in his throat, "I couldn't stop it..." he sobbed, "I couldn't... she screamed..." He allowed John to pull him to his chest. "I ran."

John swallowed, clenched his jaw and wrapped his arms around Dean's shoulders and pulled him close. "It wasn't your fault," he said, and rested his chin on Dean's head. "You couldn't have stopped it." John let his tears flow as he felt the tremors of his son's sobs.

Sam stood by the desk, gun hung limply from loose fingers as he wiped his eyes with the back of his left hand. He looked down and parted his lips as he tried to collect himself. He thought about what she had tried to take from him, the darkness, the thing that survived and hunted memories. Sam wiped his eyes one last time and looked at his Dad's back while he knelt on the floor holding Dean. Sam's chin quivered, and he had to look away. He swallowed and thought about the day he'd left home, the argument he'd had with his dad, the words he had used and the words he had heard coming from his father's mouth. It was vivid — as though he had just experienced it, emotions were raw, and he thought about the things he should have said, the things he wanted to say now.

Sam turned and looked toward Bill who still sat on the floor, knees raised, eyes covered. "You alright?"

Bill rested his elbows on his knees and looked toward Sam with red puffy eyes. "No," he said, and forcefully wiped his eyes.

Sam nodded and listened as his father continued his mantra while rocking gently back and forth. "Dad," he said, "we should get Dean out of here — Bill too."

John swallowed, pressed his lips to the top of Dean's head and sighed as John felt Dean grasp his jacket tighten "Dean?" he said and adjusted his grip as Dean suddenly went lip, hand falling from his jacket, head lulled forward. John slipped both hands beneath Dean's arms and struggled to stand, baring his weight, John shifted himself and pulled Dean into a fireman's carry.

"Dad?" Sam said and stepped around the desk.

"Grab my bag and help Bill up," John said and then looked at Sam. "You okay?" He grabbed Sam's arm.

"Yeah... I will be."


End file.
